I am Summer.

 

It is November.

Summer has finally surrendered its grip on this city, giving way to that brief, almost shy winter...the one that arrives quietly and leaves too soon. And in that shifting of seasons, I realize this truth about us:

I am summer. I am your summer.

I arrive in a burst of warmth, all brightness and long, generous days. I am the sudden ease in your shoulders, the way your laughter comes unannounced, like sunlight slipping through a half-open curtain.

With me, everything feels briefly possible; plans, hopes, even the fragile idea that happiness can be simple. But you also know summer is temporary, a guest rather than a permanent resident.

While I may bring the idle breeze that lifts your hair and the shimmer that glosses over ordinary hours, I cannot claim the steadfastness of autumn, the contemplative hush of winter, or teh soft renewals of spring. I can't promise the patience of leaves turning, the calm endurance of cold nights, or the tender promise of new buds after rain.

I am the warmth you welcome, not the rhythm you rely on.

Still, if all I can be is your summer, then let me be the one that lingers just a little longer than expected; long enough to be remembered, long enough to leave the faint scent of sunlitdays on the edges of your year.

I know I am but summer to your heart, and not the full four seasons of the year: Edna St Vincent Millay

...and I.

International Men’s Day

Every International Men’s Day, men across the world come together in a sacred ritual: forgetting it exists.

It is not entirely their fault.

Today, we raise a lukewarm beverage to us guys, creatures genetically programmed to fix anything from a carburetor to a world crisis, yet utterly bewildered by the simple request, "can we talk?"

We are the masters of the stiff upper lip, which, upon closer inspection, is usually dry and cracked because we forgot to drink water. Or because a lip balm is for pansies. Our stoicism is legendary: we will walk around for three days with a splinter the size of a carrot, rather than admit to another human that something is minorly wrong.

Why suffer in silence? Because talking about feelings is a known gateway drug to... well, feeling things. And nobody has time for that!

Men are curious creatures. We suffer in silence like it is a combat sport, clutching emotional wounds the way we clutch TV remotes: stubbornly, pointlessly, proudly. We carry those heavy burdens, lest we accidentally solve the problem and have nothing left to angst about! Ask a man to express tenderness and he will suddenly develop the vocabulary skills of a turnip. “I, uh… you know… yeah.” Shakespeare would weep.

Tenderness is strictly reserved for dogs and vintage vinyl. Or a new car.

Our spiritual guide is, naturally, James Bond. We assume our women are simply waiting for us to dramatically rappel into the kitchen to make dinner, using only a napkin and a toothpick. Then, when faced with a fully functional adult female who possesses opinions, we scratch our heads and exclaim, "Women! A riddle wrapped in an outfit I don't quite get." Meanwhile, the actual answers to life's profound questions, like where the spare keys are, are usually sitting right next to us, while we search the fridge for inspiration.

The joke is on us, really. We spend so much energy trying to be the movie hero that, we forget the truly heroic acts are the boring ones: booking the dentist, expressing a genuine emotion, and acknowledging that vulnerability won't actually cause an earth quake.

So, this International Men's Day, let’s check in the real hero. A real man isn't defined by his ability to punch through a brick wall; he is defined by his willingness to hug his friends, call his doctor, and apologize when he is wrong. Real men aren't bulletproof; they are the ones who apologize without being prompted, and realize the deepest strength isn't in never being vulnerable, but in choosing to be it anyway. In the raw feelings they unpack.

So, give a shit. Text your buddy. Perhaps schedule that doctor's appointment. Call your love.

Or get out, and live a little.

On My Mind.

 I have a confession: I am not very good at staying in touch. Some people call their friends every week. Others post heartfelt Insta stories, tag people in nostalgic throwbacks, or send long voice notes.

Me? I write things. Or draw them. Usually by accident.

You see, every now and then, something you said or did lodges itself in my head like a popcorn kernel of inspiration. A random comment, a shared joke, a fleeting moment. And days later, I’ll find myself writing a paragraph that suspiciously sounds like you. Or sketching a toon character that looks unsettlingly familiar. That’s how I communicate affection: in code.

Others reach out through calls; I do it through ways that only I understand. It is my own strange dialect of connection: one part emotion, two parts creative confusion. The kind that arrives disguised, as paragraphs in a late night draft, as passing thoughts that take shape before I can stop them.

It is not intentional, really. I don’t plan to turn people into creative by-products. It’s not that I am aloof; just artistically inefficient.

Of course, it is not the most efficient way to show people they matter. My friends have learned that a story appearing on my feed or a scribble on a napkin might secretly be about them. They have also learned that I will deny it if asked. Not because it isn’t true, but because admitting it ruins the mystery.

You may not receive a phone call from me, but you might show up in my next story as the dude who delivers the punchline or in a cartoon as a samosa snuggling up to a cup of chai.

Maybe my ways aren’t conventional, but they are heartfelt. After all, they say it’s the thought that counts, not the method. And if my thoughts could be mailed, texted, or tagged, you’d find your inbox perpetually full. But mine tends to arrive unannounced, disguised as humor, dressed in metaphors, quietly hoping you’ll recognize yourself between the lines.

It says: you’ve been on my mind.

Fold. Sigh. Repeat.

It is the Friday afternoon, the hour of the sloth, when time itself seems to sag like damp laundry. Low energy meets the anticipation of a weekend. The air feels heavy, as if burdened by the knowledge that the week has been largely meaningless, and yet not meaningless enough to forget.

Before me lies a small domestic tragedy acquired over a few days: shirts, trousers, socks, back from the clothes stand in the balcony. All tangled together in an indecent display of domestic rebellion. I stare at them as you would at the wreckage of a modest life.

Folding clothes should be simple. Yet each piece seems to resist its fate, unfolding itself in small acts of defiance. Each short sleeve is a "f*ck you" to my slow hands. The socks mock me, appearing in odd numbers as if conspiring to prove that unity is an illusion. I proceed anyway, listening to the dull moan of the air conditioner. A strange satisfaction creeps in when a few staggering piles take shape.

The illusion of control restored for a brief, fragile moment. And then a pile collapses.

By the time I am done, the room looks marginally more civilized, though I cannot shake the suspicion that chaos merely hides, waiting for my back to turn. I feel the faintest whisper of accomplishment, absurd and fleeting. Perhaps this, is how the universe rewards order.

With clean folds and quiet despair.

Footnote: please remind me to remind me, to look in the washing machine for orphaned socks.

Solo & sore at the Zoo..

 

Did I pay just to eat dirt?

I ask myself that between gasps of air, somewhere around obstacle six, while inhaling a very questionable smell. For someone who once couldn’t watch a movie without company, wouldn’t dare eat dinner alone, and believed solo travel was basically a cry for help; here I am, voluntarily crawling under barbed wire and scaling walls. Spartan Race #2. Venue: Al Ain Zoo. Because clearly, I make excellent life choices.

Somewhere after 2020-21, when the world went quiet, some people discovered baking. Others mastered DIY. I… took two years to stop sulking. But slowly, I learned to drive alone, cheer for myself, and actually enjoy my own company. I learned to sit in silence without mistaking it for loneliness. So when Spartan rolled around, I dragged my usual Spartan friends for the first race in 2025. But for the second one in 30 days, they’d had enough of my enthusiasm and politely opted out. So I went.

Alone.

Of course, reality isn’t a cinematic montage. I conquered the rope climb for the first time; thirty glorious seconds of triumph; before I lost my J-hook and slid down faster than a fireman. I had forgotten my gloves in the car. Now I’ve got bandages on nine fingers and washing my a** itself is an ordeal. My inner voice, between throbs, whispered, “Remind me again why we’re doing this?”

But here’s the funny part. It’s not about medals, likes, or applause. It’s about that beautiful ache the next day that says, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦. There’s a strange, quiet joy in pain you choose for yourself. Maybe to meet the real me. Maybe to build a world where I don’t need company to exist.

Or maybe… because madness, in the right dose, feels a lot like freedom.

Dedicated to all my fellow Spartans: Ravi Pannikkat, Vinod Raman Wariath, Lavanya Laxman, Vishnu VJ, Abhilash Mohan, Shiny Asma, Liny Panicker, Feroz Abdulla, Dhanya Cyriac and Manoj Nair. Honestly, it would have been better with you all

404 Birthday not found.

 

I have come to accept that birthdays and I share a complicated relationship. I keep forgetting them. It’s not that I don’t care. I do! I just… don’t remember. My brain seems to have a filing system where birthdays go straight to the “temp folder” and auto-delete at midnight.

Facebook is my only lifeline. Now saying that aloud puts me in the baby boomer category. You gotta remember that I have a few buddies who are a few years younger than me and never waste a chance to call me 'Ammava'. (May their sambar taste like avial)

When Facebook kindly flashes a reminder, I spring into action like a responsible adult. There is this one guy I know who posts his own photo on Facebook, adorned by red roses, white doves, candles and announes 'today is my birthday!'. Mighty cringe but what a nice guy! He is a god-send for people like me. But more about that in another post, another time.

But if the birthday person decides to go stealth mode; no post, no status, no balloon emojis; then I am sorry! They are basically un-born as far as my memory is concerned. Hello Ravi Pannikkat, I hope you are reading this

Now, don’t get me wrong, I still remember my birthday; and maybe one or two others on a good day. I can recall exactly two phone numbers, too. Beyond that, it is all guesswork, mercury in retrograde and divine intervention.

My mind seems to have a very selective sense of importance: it can’t remember where I put my glasses, but it vividly remembers the time in grade one when I called my teacher “Mummy” in front of the whole class. That memory, unlike birthdays, has been lovingly laminated and preserved forever.

Some days I get up from my chair to do something; something important, I am sure; only to reach the next room with no clue why I am there. I stand in the doorway, baffled, as my brain quietly snickers and says, “You figure it out.”

So, while the moments and memories I want to keep play hide and seek, the ones I’d rather delete show up uninvited. Somewhere, I suspect, my brain has its own master plan; to function as a completely independent entity, a rogue operator making decisions without consulting me. And judging by how well it is hiding birthdays, it is doing an excellent job.

Hello readers, what important date did you forget off late?

Note: If any of you schmucks who are reading this, are going to blame it all on my assumed age, DON'T. I have your voodoo dolls and the first pin will go in where it hurts most.