Monsoon Memories

There’s a scent I will never forget:

the smell of wet earth,

rising softly with the wind

through the arched window of my little corner room,

upstairs, in our home in Kerala.

It was my sanctuary;

the place where I found a little bit of me,

as I sat with pen and paper,

ready to scribble whatever words found me,

unfiltered and free,

while the monsoon played its lullaby outside.

From that perch, I’d watch

little children wade home from school,

laughing, kicking at puddles,

their umbrellas swaying side to side.

Auto rickshaws with their rain flaps down

would glide past like boats,

curious faces peeking through slits,

eyes wide with wonder.

Coconut palms swayed to the rhythm of the rain,

and Amma’s garden bloomed anew;

roses and hibiscus lifting their faces

to receive their sky-sent blessings.

Sometimes, I’d slip out onto the side terrace,

just to feel the rain on my skin,

arms outstretched,

the world quiet except for the whisper of the drops.

It was bliss in its purest form.

And then came Amma’s call from below..

beckoning us in for tea and banana fritters.

But it wasn’t just a snack;

it was comfort; an emotion altogether.

It was : laughter with cousins, shared stories in candlelight

when power would blink out and leave us

bathed in the amber glow of togetherness.

Even during hostel days,

that last piece of homemade pazhampori

Brought all the way from home

sparked playful fights and homesick joy;

every bite a memory.

Years have passed,

yet the view from that window still holds its magic.

And now, I watch from that same room,

as my little girl runs across the same old yard,

holding her tiny, colorful umbrella.

She jumps, she splashes,

mud and water dancing around her frock,

laughter echoing into the rain-drenched air.

She’s living the monsoon

that once lived in me.

And in these moments,

the seasons loop back on themselves,

folding time into something tender;

a memory reborn.

The monsoons in Kerala are more than a season.

They’re a feeling; a rhythm; a homecoming.

And I carry them in me,

like a secret melody:

soft, familiar, and forever.

The Art of Doing It All

When I was younger, I often heard this proverb: “Jack of all trades, master of none.” 

It lingered in the back of my mind like a quiet warning, whispering that trying too many things might mean excelling at none. At the time, I didn’t question it. But I also didn’t let it stop me.

I was the curious kid - the one who could never stick to just one hobby. I read everything I could get my hands on, doodled endlessly on notebooks in between boring lectures and played with different letterforms before I even knew what calligraphy was. I journaled like my thoughts depended on it. I experimented with makeup - not just on myself, but mostly on my friends. I braided hair, baked cookies and cakes, tried new recipes with whatever was in the kitchen. I simply did everything I could, with whatever I had.

Then came college. In India, career choices are often less about passion and more about pleasing society.. It usually boils down to two “noble” options: medicine or engineering. I wasn’t particularly drawn to either (needles made me squeamish and math stopped being appealing once alphabets took over the numbers), but architecture seemed like a loophole - a way to tick the engineering box while sneaking in some creativity. So, I chose it, hoping it would let me hold on to both logic and art. 

 And as the years passed, my list of interests only grew - photography, cooking, illustrating, storytelling. Each phase of my life brought a new layer, a new skill, a new version of me. And yet, somewhere in the back of my mind, that old proverb still echoed: Jack of all trades, master of none.

It made me wonder: was I diluting my potential by dabbling in so many things?

But life has a beautiful way of connecting the dots when you least expect it. That eye for detail from drawing served me well in architectural design.. eventually helping me finish third in my class for my thesis. My journaling evolved into storytelling, which later shaped my tone as a brand and artist. My love for fonts and handwriting turned into a career in calligraphy. I now write on paper, glass, metal, leather; anything that tells a story. My love for photography helps me create content for my brand. The hobbies I once considered random have now become the very tools that help me stand out in my work.

I’ve come to realize that every skill I picked up was never a distraction - it was preparation. It was a thread in the tapestry of who I was becoming.

And here’s the best part: the proverb? The full version actually says:

“Jack of all trades, master of none, but oftentimes better than master of one.”

Isn’t that something?

I no longer fear being “too much.” I’ve learned that I don’t need to fit neatly into a box. I’m not just one thing - I’m many.. and I think that fits me perfectly.

The Flicker of Then

Every now and then, in the middle of a busy day, something flickers.

It could be a whiff of something cooking in the air, or the golden warmth of a certain kind of sunlight, and suddenly, I’m not here anymore. For just a second, I’m back there - in a memory, a moment so familiar that I can feel it with all my senses.

The other day, while talking to a friend, we found ourselves stumbling into that shared space of nostalgia. That soft, blurry zone where memories feel more like dreams than facts. We were talking about our college days, and suddenly I was there again. Sitting at that tiny shop called Aklu's, waiting for my aloo paratha. I could hear the laughter of my friends, the clatter of plates, the familiar rhythm of a college afternoon. I could feel the sunshine on my face, the dust in the air, the smell of food that made everything feel okay. It was all so real for a flickering moment. And then it was gone.

Sometimes it’s home that comes back to me. A winter evening, quiet and still. I’m curled up on the old sofa in our living room, a plate of warm French toast in my hands - Amma’s French toast, the kind that made everything better. Scooby-Doo is playing on TV, my brother is next to me, and we’re just… there. No homework, no pressure, nothing to chase. Just the soft hum of comfort and the feeling that life is whole in that very moment. How I wish I could bottle that up. Keep it safe somewhere. Open it up when things get too loud, too fast, too grown-up.

And then there were the school days. The hallways that felt like mazes - long, echoing corridors where we chased each other, ducked behind corners, waved from one floor to another. I still dream about those stairs sometimes. About bunking class and sneaking behind the building with just two parathas shared between six of us. We’d sit in a circle, tearing pieces, dipping them into chana, laughing about our latest crushes, mimicking teachers, giggling over nonsense that felt like everything. We didn’t know it then, but we were living the stories we’d ache for later.

I think what I miss the most is not the moments themselves, but who we were in them. The version of me that didn’t have to plan things, or juggle responsibilities, or reply to emails. The me that just was. In the moment. Fully. Freely.

These memories – they visit quietly. No warning. No announcement. Just a flicker, and suddenly you’re there. And just as quickly, you’re back. Older. Busier. Maybe wiser. 

But always a little homesick for a time that doesn’t exist anymore - except in your heart.