💛 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 ❤️

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..........

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** 😄)

A Cup of Nostalgia: My Journey with Coffee

I’ve always been a coffee person. Tea and I never really got along. The few times I tried it, I couldn’t quite appreciate the taste. But life has its way of making you adapt, especially when you don’t have a choice. Growing up in a convent boarding school, I was forced to drink tea. The nuns believed in discipline, and as a girl, you were expected to adjust to everything without question. It was a cliché line we heard at least once a day—something today’s kids would probably roll their eyes at.

But let’s leave tea behind and get back to my love for coffee.

In my home, everyone drank tea. I, on the other hand, was a Complan girl. Yes, the very same drink that promised to make us "taller, stronger, and sharper." My summer vacations, however, were spent at my mother’s ancestral home, where I discovered a whole new world of flavors. It was there that I first saw my aunt sipping black coffee with jaggery—each sip followed by a bite of the golden sweetener. There was something mesmerizing about the way she did it, like a sacred ritual after a long morning of chores.

My mother’s home was a classic farmer’s household—alive with the scent of freshly turned soil, the hum of daily farm activities, and the warmth of family. Mornings began before dawn, with the fields coming to life—paddy swaying in the breeze, rows of banana and rubber plantations, cocoa and nutmeg trees standing tall. The courtyard was always bustling with workers, each engaged in different tasks. We, the carefree cousins, would run around, disrupting their work, earning scoldings from grandpa for playing with rice and peas. Those were the golden days.

And amidst all that, my aunt’s coffee stood out. That was my first real introduction to coffee.

Yet, my mother never made coffee for me. It remained a distant curiosity, tucked away in my taste buds, waiting for the right time to resurface. It wasn’t until my undergraduate days that I started drinking it myself. My options were limited to black coffee, regular milk coffee, and, of course, Bru—the instant coffee that defined an entire generation.

Bru wasn’t just coffee; it was luxury. It was the expensive, treasured jar that only made its way to the table when guests arrived. Sneaking a cup without my mother’s permission was nearly impossible. The rich aroma, the deep flavor—it felt like pure heaven.

Then came Chennai, the city that expanded my coffee horizons. Moving there for my post-graduation was overwhelming. Everything felt new, fast, and unfamiliar—until I met Aarti. She was my guardian angel, the one who made the transition easier. She was also the one who bought me my first cappuccino. Until then, I had only known coffee in its simplest forms, but that frothy cup introduced me to an entirely new world.

From there, there was no turning back. I explored every café I could, trying different types of coffee—espresso, Americano, macchiato, mocha, cold brew, and even the fancy caramel frappuccinos. Each one had its own charm, its own story to tell.

And just last month, coffee took me on another nostalgic journey.

We had traveled to Anakkulam, a serene hill station, where I stumbled upon a cup of coffee that transported me straight back to my childhood. It tasted exactly like the one my aunt used to make. I couldn’t resist—I had to know more. I learned that the coffee was cultivated by the local tribes, taken to the only mill in the area, and ground into a pure, unadulterated powder. No added flavors, just the raw, strong aroma of freshly ground coffee beans.

I brought some back home. Now, every morning, as I sip that coffee, I’m reminded of those childhood summers, of my aunt’s quiet coffee ritual, of the farm buzzing with life. It’s amazing how a single cup can hold so many memories.

But my coffee journey doesn’t end here. It never will. Because for a coffee lover, every cup is a new story waiting to be brewed.

The Struggles of Buying a Stamp Paper in the Digital Age

There was a time when buying a stamp paper was a straightforward process. You would visit a vendor, stand in a queue, and eventually get what you needed. It wasn’t the most convenient process, but at least it was predictable. However, with the shift to digital services, what was meant to ease the process has ironically made it even more cumbersome.

 

In our state, stamp papers are now issued online, a move intended to reduce manual intervention and improve accessibility. But in reality, it has become a nightmare for the common people. The official website frequently goes down, leaving users frustrated and uncertain about when it will be functional again. Even when the site does work, only a limited number of stamp papers are made available daily. The intention might have been to make the process smoother, but the reality on the ground tells a different story.

 

People from various walks of life rely on stamp papers for essential agreements—rental agreements, indemnity bonds, MoUs, and countless other legal documents. But instead of streamlining the process, digitization has created long, uncertain waiting periods. Today, I arrived at the designated center at 8:15 AM, only to find myself in a never-ending queue. Hours later, I managed to find a seat, but I still have no idea how much longer I’ll have to wait.

 

This is the struggle of the middle class—constantly adapting to changes that are supposed to simplify life but often end up adding more hurdles. Authorities roll out digital services with good intentions, but without proper infrastructure and planning, they often become more of a burden than a benefit. When will the system truly change for the better? When will efficiency and accessibility be more than just promises?

 

For now, we wait. And wait. Just like we always do.

Why Twitter Works for News???

I am an active tweep and do tweet every day. I tweet a little bit of quotations, thoughts and some interesting things. Even though I track my fellow tweeps’ tweets, I never realized the active participation of most of them till last week. Some of them tweet regularly and others will be idle for all the day. (Sometimes, I too belong to the idle group who just reads others’ tweets)

One day, I happened to see Burkha Dutt’s tweet on Hyderabad Air Crash# and did retweet it. It amazed me that suddenly people started asking me questions related to this incident as if am reporting from the accident spot. I waited for other authentic tweets to answer my fellow tweeps’ queries. Also the # tag helped me to track people who were tweeting on this particular incident. The period of diffusion of the news was unbelievable. I checked a few news website out of curiosity, but the tweet world was ahead of them with new updates. I realized the factor that, more than a status application, now it is being used as a first alert mechanism for the dissemination of news and for immediate discussion surrounding that news.

Next day it was nithyantha# ruled the twitter world. I just clicked on nithyantha# and it led me to whole lot information which will be difficult to collect in a limited period of time. People were retweeting the scandal with an urge to inform the world about such fake saints.

The twitter world amazes me a lot by its over growing popularity and people adapt it so quickly. When I was actually introduced to twitter by Ganesh, I found it as an arduous task to understand and recognize the features and functionalities of twitter. Now it has become the trend and other social sites were beaten by twitter because of its simplicity. There are plenty of desktop and mobile applications which will help you to tweet according to your choice. The interesting thing is that it won’t consume much of your time, also help you to develop your multi tasking ability :)

Actually what I wanted to share with you is that rapid dissemination is occurring through twitter these days. It has become a serious platform for discussion and news dissemination and it does get a great amount of coverage. I was just wondering why???

Why Twitter???

Quick: The information will reach you fast. Actually you can find most of the journalists, bloggers, writers and even big companies in twitter and they do maintain a twitter account and tweet actively and disseminate information. I am sure they are going to push twitter to mainstream soon.

Simple: the 140 characters make it simple as a text message. Tweet gives you the chance to listen to the news in context.

Easy: Twitter has smartly developed a large set of tools that help people use the service. This makes it easier for people to get content on Twitter in the manner most convenient and most comfortable to them.

Interactive: unlike any other medium it allows conversation. It does encourage feedback. Most of the political leaders and celebrities are interacting with people without any hesitation.

I would like to borrow Ruffini’s thoughts as my closing thought, “Twitter is built for the new news cycle. Traditional news operated on a 24-hour cycle. Blogs shortened this to minutes and hours. Twitter shortens it further to seconds," he writes. "It's not right for every piece of information. It's certainly not well suited for longer analysis. But when it comes to instantly assembling raw data from several sources that then go into fully baked news stories, nothing beats it."

you might also like: Twitter Killed Jyoti Basu

The five point THREE IDIOTS!!!

I recently watched the block buster flick 3 idiots. I can say, this is one of the over hyped movies which met my expectation. This is again an adaptation from one of Chetan Bhagat’s chicklits called Five Point Someone. This was his debut book and a best seller. Usually the ‘fiction to film’ stuff irritates. But, this one......Good work Mr. Hirani!!!

I read the book as soon as it was released, good, funny and light stuff. I really wanted to see the book on the reel. At last that did happen in a grand way.

As everyone knows, recently the movie and its creators were hit by a credit controversy. The so-called percentage controversy did a great job to boost the movie and book sale. 3 idiots interested the media for quite some time. It did get a wide reach than the promotion stunts. Easy PR ;)

Even though, the director said the movie is an adaptation (now they want to call it as initiation) of the FPS, I felt that only the thread was taken. Off course the main characters added and some eliminated. That’s the way it is for any adaptation. The hype was really high to promote the movie. Print, broadcast and online ads were flooding. I don’t think there was any need to publicize it so much coz movie goers always accept good movies whole heartedly. You would be thinking why I am talking about promotion which is a universal practice. That’s true, but the buzz is that, to diminish the Chetan effect, they publicized it in a larger level. This caught the media’s attention beforehand and when the controversy actually hit the roof it was a hot cake for our country’s fourth estate.

Mr. Bhagat penned in his website that "The setting, characters, plotline, dramatic twists and turns, one-liners, theme, message - almost all aspects that make up the story are from FPS. Yes, there are some changes, any adaptation requires that - but it is no way an original story. Leading movie critics have privately admitted to me that the film is 70% the book. Still, don't take my word for it - go read the book, watch the film." We tend to believe him when he comes up with the minute details. But when you read the creators’ point of view, you will nod for their arguments too. The spectators like us just take it as an instinct to watch movie/read book. What else can we do?;)

Anyway, the media, creators and the author utilized the percentage controversy. But was he really trying to take away the credit? The media came up with all possible answers. I strongly feel that it was a publicity stunt. Nobody defamed but profited in a larger level. The movie hit the box office and the book is out of stock.:) All is well!!!

Lucky / Unlucky???

Luck??? I always wonder what it exactly means. My wiki hunt led me to a statement which is not at all compelling, “A belief in good or bad fortune in life caused by accident or chance which happens beyond a person's control”. Sounds interesting but don’t you think it is too much for a customary word?? (personal opinion). I agree with the belief part alone coz belief is the property of oneself. Your belief is you, you are your belief. Keep believing! (Courtesy: Ganesh)

Hmmm...It’s so easy to justify things on the basis of luck or bad luck. (Kind of escapism, right?) But people do take it granted. I am quite unsure about the existence of luck. Rather, I don’t want to believe that. My rational mind forces me to consider that luck is just a state of mind coz I am known for my bad luck. Many of us worry a lot for the unstable and unexpected causes in our life. Is it really an outcome of luck?

I tweeted my query regarding this and did receive many interesting replies. All replies were confirming to me that luck does exist. I never thought it in that way. One of my tweeps pointed out that many people are not worthy enough for what they get. That’s true…so I have been forced to believe that luck exists. Otherwise what we call this phenomenon??

Luck happens when opportunity meets preparation. How can we prepare for luck? Difficult question……. I don’t think any preparation is really going into luck. Probably I can say, it just exists now and then to remind us its existence!!!

Love you Mom!!!

I miss you mom.... I miss you so badly.....

I never thought you will leave me and go....

Why did you go so soon from my life???

When I saw you still, I was broken and I cried hardly to make you awake from your sleep. But you never heard me. You didn’t respond to me. You were asleep. I could hear the funeral song which was playing in that eerie atmosphere. I tried to understand the meaning of the song. It sounded to me like a story. An angel came and asked my mom to follow him; he didn’t even give her the time to prepare. She begged him saying about her husband and kids, but the angel was so cruel it didn’t allow my mom to say good bye to us.

My tears became meaningless when I understood that you will never come back. I felt my life came to an end. Then I realized I am still living without you. I never thought about death so seriously. I have witnessed deaths of my relatives, friends, and strangers. But I never thought this monster will come to my family.

Now I am realizing the instability of the life. We are running behind so many worldly things without understanding our destiny.

Mom, I want you....

Please come back...please...coz I love you so much...

TWO STATES!!!

I am an honest fan of Chetan Bhagat and his writings. More than an Indian English Writer, I would prefer to call him as the king of chick lit novels. Chick lit novels actually gained their popularity only after Chetan’s Five Point Someone was released. I can say People developed a liking for this genre through his books. The “shift from classics to light stuff” really happened during this time. Many people like me started picking his books for leisure reading.

I read his TWO STATES recently. This book is the latest to his list. A blurb in the back side of the book caught my attention. Probably I would have related it to my life ;)

Love marriages around the world are simple:
Boy loves girl. Girl loves boy.
They get married.

In India, there are a few more steps:
Boy loves Girl. Girl loves Boy.
Girl's family has to love boy. Boy's family has to love girl.
Girl's Family has to love Boy's Family. Boy's family has to love girl's family.
Girl and Boy still love each other. They get married.

I would like to add one more point to the same.

Boy and girl should be from the same religion/caste/state/family background :)

Even though, this book touches only the family affairs, it made me think a lot about our current religious and community norms existing in India. Religion is not our choice, it has already decided by our folks before our birth. However, our constitution gives us the privilege to choose our religion; it is always elders’ choice. By the way, don’t think I am blaming our age old practices.

I would like to borrow a thought from Ganesh and Savi. They believe that religion/caste is a system that is created by our ancestors to keep us in the social order. This would give meaning to the practices we perform under an extreme power, the God Almighty. Sometimes, I too like to believe the same. If caste or religion doesn’t allow you to think like a human, then better believe this concept.

Along with the author, I wish a change in our current scenarios. Why religious and state boundaries restrict us from the existence. Don’t think I too fell in love with a North Indian Guy like the protagonist. (See, I am also stigmatized).

I was just wondering, when we will make it to the normal concept of marriage ;)

Boy loves girl. Girl loves boy.
They get married. ;)

Lost symbol effect!!!

At last I found the lost symbol ;)

The much awaited moment was ended when my Anna gifted me with Dan Brown’s Lost symbol (my Rakhi gift). I dint get the chance to read it first because Pinki had already booked it. Let me say, this book is awesome!!!

Whenever I read a Dan Brown book, it develops some sort of strange interest in me. Each sentence awakes the info seeker in me….and I feel am the one, who is searching for the so called precious info in the story. I know my imagination is too kiddish.
If I keep my fantasy stuff apart, Brown's style keeps the pages turning as readers try to connect the dots, which is the crucial thing in this book. All his thrillers are known for its style and its relation to Christianity.

Narrating a story is something really great and I lack that art. That’s why am so much interested in reading those kinds of books which are very strong in narration. The plot, situations, and characters move along with you when you read through the text. Isn’t it a great art? (Off course it is!!! I am struggling to create continuity in whatever crap I write :)

And another important fact is the book’s relation with catholic conspiracies. Being a catholic, am interested in Catholicism and it’s so called ‘church secrets’. The plot is set in such a way that the Symbols and mythology provides a fun chance to toy with conspiracy theories. I never knew there were so many secrets behind the Catholic Church. (Hope it’s not true :)

The book didn’t consume my much time as The Lost Symbol' does not require much effort to read. Some words did need a Google search; still it never spoiled the continuity of the plot.

I am so much impressed by the writing style of Brown. But I read a few reviews criticized the narrative as witless, adjectivally-promiscuous and addicted to using italics to convey excitement. Is that really true? I don’t read many thrillers and not familiar with the adept thriller writers. If you can invoke interest through your own writing style, then why need to follow other writers. I did have great time by reading the book, then why to worry about the critics.

Let me tell you one thing frankly, I didn’t like the ending :(
but no comments ;)

All the best Boss!!!

It is almost one year since I joined Congruent. Ganesh helped me to find this job and he is my boss too. I am kinda of enjoying the life here. This office is so different from my previous one, where I started my communication career. I feel happy when I think about this organization. It teaches me a lot and does give me the opportunity to flourish my career.

Marketing department is the best in Congruent. Rashmi, Subu, Durai and myself are so fortunate to work under Ganesh (he heads marketing). He encourages us a lot and never complains about anything. My other colleagues feel the ‘J’ factor for us.

For me, he is a role model. I adopt many things from him, especially his sincerity, commitment in work and passion to train his subordinates and all (it’s actually a never ending list:). I have noticed one thing that he never hesitated to appreciate anyone of us even in our small achievements.

You know some people say they have the greatest boss, but they don't unless they work with mine. My boss is more than just a boss, he's my friend. He will do anything for anyone and is always there when you need him. If All Bosses were like him, the World Would Be a Happier Place.

It is sad thing that he is leaving to another firm for a better career. It gives me disappointment but I would like to wish him a great career.

Wishing good luck in your new job dear Ganesh!!!

Oh my God who’s gonna come next??? :(