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.

From Daydreams to Downstrokes

I Am a Dreamer

I can’t help it - truly, I can’t.

Even in the middle of something mundane or routine, my mind wanders. Ideas, visions, and daydreams swirl around endlessly. Maybe that’s why boredom is such a stranger to me.

After I got married, especially during that first year, people often asked - “How are you surviving at home all day?”

No job. No office. Just home. “Don’t you get bored?”

It was always asked with a tone of disbelief - like I didn’t seem the type to idle away my time.

And they were right. I don’t idle.

At least not in this magical world I carry inside my head.

My mind is constantly moving - so much so that I often struggle to keep up with myself.

So no, I was never bored. Not once.

In fact, I cherished that time. The freedom of unstructured hours, the quiet joy of being lazy and creative all at once - it was liberating.

Somewhere along that journey, I stumbled upon lettering and calligraphy.

It started with those mesmerizing videos of calligraphers dancing across the page with elegant tools. I was captivated. So I picked up a pen and gave it a try.

And I loved it.

Still do - more with every passing day.

What started with strokes and curves soon expanded into painting, styling, and exploring photography techniques to showcase my work. I unearthed skills I hadn’t touched since school or my early college years - things I’d long forgotten I loved.

Instagram became more than just a platform - it became a community. A space filled with fellow artists who inspire and uplift. And I can’t thank my family enough for cheering me on through every wild idea and creative detour.

I’m grateful I took that first step.

I may still be far from where I dream of being, but I know I’ve climbed a few steps up this tall staircase - and that matters.

If you’re reading this, and there’s something calling out to you - some passion or hobby that lights a tiny spark - please chase it. No matter how impractical or crazy it seems.

Because the rest - it unfolds beautifully along the way.

Yes, I’ve made countless mistakes.

Shredded papers. Wasted efforts. Learned hard lessons.

But not once did I feel like giving up.

There’s still so much to try, so much to explore.

And I can’t wait.

The other life

I feel like I have a parallel life

One which awaits the darkness of the night

For as soon as I’m asleep

It’s the dawn of a new day in my head

The places it takes me to

Or I take myself to

I’ll never know if they are for real or not

For it seems surreal

This life I live

Whereas the dreams

Are too real to be dreams

I wonder what I do

In this parallel world

While I’m awake in the real world

Or what seems like it’s real.

Love is…

Love is what stays in your heart -

what warms you even on the darkest nights

of the coldest winters.

Love is…

The way he holds you,

the sharp little gasp when your frozen feet find his.

The scent of his forehead as you kiss him goodnight.

The laughter at how lame your jokes are - both of yours.

The wake-up calls.

The fights,

and the soft, stumbling apologies that come after.

It’s the arguments over whose turn it is

to turn off the lights,

or pick the movie.

It’s the late-night drives.

The nights that blur into mornings.

The joy, the ache,

the incredible mess of feelings

that can only come

from something so simple and vast:

Love.

Pause

She reached out to the swirling world

from within hers;

arms outstretched,

trying, once again,

to hold on to something

that could slow it all down.

She had grown tired..

of the blurry faces,

the hushed voices,

the laughter,

the colours,

the noise that rose and folded into itself.

It was all right there,

so vividly alive,

but she couldn’t quite step into it.

Not yet.

All she wanted

was to stop time;

just for a little while..

long enough

to be still,

to be quiet,

to have enough

for herself.