Cluck! Who's there!

 I did not expect to confront the collapse of reality between a dusty SUV and a leaking pipe on Basement Level 4, but there it was. As I was trying to leave office for some work outside, it appeared in front of me. A semi-adult chicken. Not cooked, not refrigerated, not even a bit confused. Just… standing there.

Existing. Mocking me.

Alright, let’s be clear: chickens do not just happen in underground parking. This isn’t some casual “oops, I took the wrong turn at the signal” situation. No. This has layers. Dark, feathery layers.

Theory one: it infiltrated via a supply truck. Classic smuggling operation. You think those crates are full of vegetables? Please...! That’s exactly what Big Poultry wants you to believe. Wake up. This bird did not hitch a ride. It was deployed.

Theory two: it escaped from a nearby apartment. Which raises uncomfortable questions about your neighbors. Who keeps a semi-adult chicken indoors? And more importantly… what was it planning to grow into? You don’t just “misplace” a chicken unless something deeply experimental is happening behind closed doors.

Theory three: and stay with me.....

It Was Always There.

Basement Level 4 is simply where it chose to reveal itself. A glitch in the matrix. A feathered omen. Maybe you were not supposed to see it. Maybe none of us are.

The chicken itself? Disturbingly calm. No panic. No clucking. Just a quiet, almost sinister stillness. Like it knows something. Like it has seen things. Like it is waiting. For what? Hard to say. Possibly for us to realize we have all accepted this situation way too quickly.

I stood there, drumming my steering wheel, while the chicken looked sideways at me with a its mouth half open in a beaky smirk. At one point, it pecked the ground..at nothing. Or perhaps… at something we cannot perceive.

Eventually, I left. Not because I understood, but because I didn’t want to.

If tomorrow you hear about a “minor incident” in Basement Level 4… just know: it wasn’t minor. And it definitely wasn’t the chicken’s first day.

Between TICKS and HEARTBEATS.

 I found myself revisiting Interstellar yesterday, drawn once again into its vast, quiet meditations on time and existence. Somewhere between the equations and the silences, Professor Brand’s words; “I am afraid of time”, lingered longer than the movie itself.

They felt less like a line from a film and more like an uncomfortable truth I had been ignoring.

Time is not merely a dimension to be measured with clocks and equations; it is a quiet thief with impeccable manners. It never rushes, never stumbles, yet somehow leaves your pockets empty of moments you swore you had just placed there.

I think time is most mischievous in being so subtle. It does not announce the importance of a day while you are living it. A Saturday may pass with the grandeur of a discarded diaper, only to return years later dressed as a treasured memory. Birthdays blur, celebrations dissolve, and even sorrow softens at the edges.

Time edits ruthlessly. Where did I hear that!

Much like a toastmaster trimming a speech to meet an impossible word count.

And then there are people. The true variable.

You meet someone briefly, accidentally, and they rearrange the furniture of your mind without permission. You assume permanence while time chuckles politely and proves otherwise. Some remain, most fade, and a few become oddly immortal in recollection, as though memory itself refuses to obey the laws of decay.

The humor lies in our arrogance. We schedule, we plan, we declare, “next year,” as if time is our b*tch rather than an indifferent force. Meanwhile, the seconds slip by, unimpressed by our calendars.

So yes, I am afraid of time.

Not because it ends things, but because it renders them meaningful precisely by doing so. A paradox!

Then again, movies have never been particularly concerned with making us comfortable. Just like the universe.

Falling for a space.

 Love, I have learned, is not found. It is circled.

Round and round I go; dignified, composed, pretending I am not slowly unraveling; scanning rows like a hopeful romantic at a wedding buffet. Everyone else seems settled. Parked. Certain. And I?

I orbit.

You search. You hope. You circle.

There is vulnerability in signaling left. It is an announcement to the world: I believe. I believe something will open up. I believe the universe has reserved a space with my name invisibly painted on it.

And then, there it is.

An empty parking spot.

Bathed in fluorescent glory. Unoccupied. Waiting. The heavens part. Indicators blink like wedding bells. For a brief, reckless moment, I understand destiny.

I glide in with reverence. Perfect alignment. Engine off. Silence. This is not convenience. This is affirmation. This is the universe whispering, “you are chosen.”

Temporary, but magical.

Because deep down, I know the truth. This spot is not mine. It was never mine. I am merely a chapter in its long history of short-term commitments. Before me, others occupied it. After me, someone else will reverse into its embrace without even knowing I was here.

And yet, I fall every time.

The heartbreak is subtle. You leave. You walk away. You glance back once, like a dramatic protagonist in a low-budget Bollywood romance. The space remains. Indifferent. Ready to move on within minutes.

Maybe this is why I relate to parking spots. I don’t crave permanence. I crave arrival. The relief of finally fitting somewhere, even briefly.

Savage truth?

At least a parking spot is honest. It doesn’t promise forever. It simply exists; open, available, and clear about its boundaries.

And yes, I just compared a parking spot to humans; don’t @ me!

Happy Valentine's, everyone!

Cat. Dog. 2025.

 

Note: Not the usual uplifting new year post.

They met behind a dumpster because that is where honest stories begin; next to rotting chicken bones, wet newspapers, and the smell of stuff gone bad. The dog arrived first, tail wagging like it had somewhere better to be later. The cat emerged from the shadows with paws soaked in suspicion. That should have been the first sign.

Dogs aren’t supposed to meet cats there, or anywhere, really! Dogs believe in tomorrow. Cats believe in survival. Philosophical incompatibility right from the start.

The dog wagged. The cat calculated. The dog thought this was fate. The cat thought this was Wednesday.

The dog believed in chemistry. The cat believed in physics: specifically, gravity, distance, and how fast it could leave if things got stupid.

They hung around each other longer than they should have. Shared silence. Shared contempt for pigeons. Sometimes the dog talked about fetch and purpose. Sometimes the cat stared into nothing, like it had seen the end credits already. People said it wouldn’t last. People always say that when they recognize themselves in the wreckage.

They spent weeks watching pigeons fail at life. Sharing space without sharing meaning. A wagabond said they were cute together. They say that about fires too, right before the house collapses.

The dog wanted a walk at sunrise, a bowl with their name on it, something hard to chew on. The cat wanted a corner, an exit, and no questions asked.

The problem wasn’t fighting. It was hope. The dog thought boops could fix the math. The cat knew better. Cats always know better. Dogs insist on learning the hard way, repeatedly, with enthusiasm.

Eventually, one night, without drama or speeches, the cat left. No note. No explanation. Just the echo of paws disappearing into the dark, like it had rehearsed it for years.

The dog waited. Dogs always wait. Then one day it stopped. Not because it understood, because waiting gets boring.

The cat, meanwhile, dreamed big. Not a litter box. Not redemption. Just a larger cardboard box. Thick walls. Dry corners. Enough space to sit and judge the world properly.

The dog watched the sky light up and made a resolution. No more scraps. No more old bones picked clean by previous mouths. From now on, only fresh bones; still warm with possibility, still dangerous.

And that’s how it goes. Another year ends. Another year begins. The dogs swear that this time will be different. A promise to change, to choose better, to stop meeting emotional disasters behind dumpsters.

But January smells suspiciously like December. You dress up the same habits, rename the same mistakes, and call it growth. Maybe that is life. Or maybe it’s just another dog believing, another cat leaving, and all of us pretending the new year didn’t come with the same old punchline.

1 Jan 2026. Another year clocked in, saw the mess, shrugged, and lit a cigarette.

Do this one slightly better, mate!

Lost in Lace.

 Accompanying her to La Senza seemed harmless enough. “Just be a supportive friend,” she said.

Oh yeah!

The moment I stepped in, I realized I had entered a different universe: a glittering cosmos of lace, silk, and garments so small I wondered if they were for fairies. I was the only man in sight, instantly a walking curiosity. Some women looked at me with amusement, others with mild apprehension. looks that said, “what is this creature doing here?”

Trying to be helpful, I hovered near the displays, moving back and forth like a nervous metronome. That’s when it happened: an employee leaned over and politely said, “Sir, could you step inside properly? The camera counts footfall, and you are confusing the counter by walking to and fro.”

I froze. My very existence was breaking corporate analytics.

I mumbled an apology and planted myself near a mannequin, pretending it was my ally. “Blend in,” I whispered to the lace.

Every time she picked something up, I tried to make a helpful comment. “Um… maybe that one?” She glanced at me like I had just suggested buying a gun. My knowledge of lingerie is limited to what I have seen in movies, and that clearly wasn’t enough. “Dev, do you even know what that is?” And no, I did not.

It could not have fitted a human body.( and this sentence is NOT meant to be a complaint).

Eventually, she made her selections. I paid for the privilege of existing there, and we left. Outside, I took a deep breath, vowing never to underestimate the intensity of the lingerie aisle again.

My ego, however, remains a little bruised. Apparently, being a man in La Senza is like being a cat at a dog show: tolerated, slightly ridiculous, and forever remembered by cameras.

(you may judge me by what I did; but I bet you like the photo I clicked)

Secret Santa Wish-list.

 

Every December, at work, we have Secret Santa. This year's is happening next week. Secret Santa asks us to share our wish list, which is adorable, but what I truly need is far beyond photo frames ( I have enough at home to burn Rome down), unisex perfumes or another ceramic mug. This year, I have decided to submit a wish-list that might not be realistic, ethical, or even legal; but is absolutely essential for my continued existence in society.

1. A lift-activated mobile destroyer.

A discreet device that vaporizes any phone placed on speaker mode inside a lift. Bonus feature: A polite message that says, “This could’ve waited, u schmuck.”

2. A universal mute button.

Primarily for coworkers who breathe loudly on calls, over-explain simple concepts, or believe “reply all” is their birth right. Works from up to 30 meters away. Longer range models available for open offices.

3. The big-mouth silencer 3000.

A sleek, pocket sized device that automatically powers down whenever someone begins a sentence with, “You know, when I was in London…” or “My son, the genius…” It emits a soft “shhhh” followed by a gentle ego-deflating mist.

4. The auto-block selfie addict filter.

Connects to your social media and instantly unfollows anyone who uploads more than three selfies a day, especially the ones with captions like “felt cute” or “random candid” (taken after 47 retries). Also bans people who pout at the camera like there's a horny duck somewhere up in their family tree.

5. The WhatsApp rose exterminator.

An AI-powered bot for group chats that detects good morning roses, glitter GIFs, and sun emojis before they reach your screen. It automatically replies on your behalf with: “This message has been composted.” Members sending more than 10 roses a week are rudely removed with an accompanying sound similar to 'thooooo...'

I know this list makes me sound unhinged; but if Secret Santa truly cared about world peace (or my sanity), these are exactly the gifts we would be exchanging.

Until then, here’s another mug that says “Stay Positive.” Sure. I’ll try.

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