My appoppan, K. Kuttappan of Kollantevadakadil house, was not just my mother’s father—he was a world of stories bound in mundu folds, and the smell of Chandrika soap. He never travelled outside Kerala, except for that one trip to Bangalore to visit us, yet when he spoke, you felt he had carried entire worlds in his pocket. His descriptions of Tamarasheri churam’s winding roads, or a boat cutting through the backwaters, weren’t just stories—they were portals. Listening to him was like travelling without moving, like cinema without the screen. Though not formally educated, he had read deeply—Malayalam writers and philosophers. He carried their words in his speech, not like a scholar quoting, but like a man who had thought them through while sipping tea in the verandah. Maybe that’s why his stories always felt bigger than the narrow lanes of our village. He dressed sharp, always. Not in suits or fancy coats, but in the elegance of a mundu whose kara matched his shirt perfectly. Starched w...
As the clock strikes twelve, corks pop, fireworks scatter across the sky, and the world pretends to agree on the magic of a new beginning. But have you ever paused to wonder why we get so excited about a page flipping on a calendar? January 1st has no cosmic importance—just another sunrise, another lap in this endless waltz of time. It’s a bit like celebrating the 5,879th circle you’ve walked around your coffee table—arbitrary, but oddly satisfying. Philosophers, of course, never let a party pass without questions. Is time a line? A circle? Or just an illusion we’re all tricked into? While the rest of us raise champagne glasses, some thinker out there is probably sighing that we’re cheering for another spin in a dance that never ends. I like that image though—the Earth as a ballroom floor, us tiny dancers spinning whether we know the steps or not. History isn’t any clearer. Not everyone celebrates on this night. The Chinese wait for their lunar rhythm, India celebrates dozens of “new y...