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.

Macondo

 

“It's enough for me to be sure that you and I exist at this moment.”

― Gabriel García Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude.

I revisited this epic after many years. The first time when I was a college student, who definitely made more trips to the muncipal library in my town, than I do to a book store now. Back in the day, I went on a trip through Macondo, where magic was around every street corner. But to be honest, not every thing made sense to a younger me. I, perhaps lacked the life experiences that was a prerequisite to truly understand what Márquez wrote.

It is now Oct 2025. Now it seems like my life borrowed a few pages from it; where time loops back on itself and memory plays tricks, making yesterday and tomorrow trade places. The people I have met, each with their own peculiar spark, seem like characters born from Márquez's imagination: beautifully flawed, endlessly fascinating!

Passion, in my world has never obeyed reason; it has burned where it shouldn't and faded where it promised to last. Courage, too, has arrived uninvited, often when fear made no sense. And love; it never stayed still long enough to be called 'forever'. Yet, through the whirl of all these blurred moments; one truth anchors me... It's enough for me to be sure that you and I exist at this moment.

Love, Laps and Letting go..

Everywhere I go, cats seem to find me. They don’t tiptoe shyly; they come bounding over as if I’ve been their long lost buddy. Some rub their faces against my legs, some plonk down at my feet while one launches itself into my lap with the confidence of an old friend. Their meows are loud and I think they must be starving. Yet, when I place food before them, they barely glance at it. No, what they really want is attention: a scratch under the chin, a belly rub, a fleeting exchange of love.

And then, just as suddenly as they arrived, they are gone. Off to new adventures, leaving me sitting there like the clingy one in the relationship. I laugh at myself!

Imagine getting rejected by a creature that licks its own butt for fun. But in their brief visits, the cats teach me something: love doesn’t always have to be grand or permanent. Sometimes it’s just a passing kindness, a moment of connection that warms two beings before the world tugs them apart again.

Maybe that’s the beauty of it. Love isn’t always about forever. Sometimes it’s about showing up, sharing warmth, and letting go with a smile.

Time-travel Tea stop.

There I was, waiting for my flight at Kochi International airport, the world’s first airport fully powered by solar energy, when something completely off-grid happened. I was served tea in a copper cup and dabara. For a second, I thought I had time-travelled. Should I look around for my grandmother, yelling at someone for not boiling the milk twice?

Back in her day, this tea would’ve simmered over a firewood stove, in a well-loved copper pot that had seen more chai than some people see in a lifetime. Today, that same copper glint caught the light, not from a village courtyard, but from solar panels powering conveyor belts and charging stations.

It was surreal. Surrounded by touchscreen check-ins, automated announcements, and power-saving LEDs, there sat my tea, old-school, no nonsense, and possibly judging my beverage preferences these days.

It felt like tradition had sneaked into the future through a side door… wearing a mundu and humming an old Malayalam tune.

In that moment, sipping hot tea from cold copper, I realised something: innovation isn’t always about forgetting the past. Sometimes, it’s about circling back to it; just with a better carbon footprint.

Whose Ass Is It Anyway!

Greetings, earthlings.

I am Shattaf ibn Blast, your humble but ferocious backside bidet pipe, stationed loyally beside every porcelain throne across the Emirates. My mission? Cleanliness. My method? Well....

Now, for most of the year, I am a gentle soul. A loyal servant. A refreshing spritz. But come summer...ah...summer: my inner demon awakens. I become something else. Something... diabolical.

As temperatures outside soar past 50°C, the water in my metallic veins transforms into liquid magma. And I wait; silently. I wait for the next unsuspecting victim to stroll in, phone in hand, unaware that they are about to be branded in regions best left unnamed.

The scene of the crime.

It's always the same. They squat. They reach for me casually, almost cockily, like I'm just a tool. And then they press my lever.

BAM!

The scream is silent, but I hear it. Oh, I hear it in their soul.

You can tell by the way their legs jerk mid-air. Their eyes widen, pupils dilate. In that moment, they remember every regrettable life decision, every ex, every unpaid mawaqif fine, and the lyrics to a song they haven't heard since 1984. Sometimes I even trigger flashbacks of kindergarten naptime or a traumatic goat encounter in rural Idukki.

After our first encounter, sitting down becomes a negotiation. They hover. They wince. They pray. Some try to test me with a cautious pre-spray, aiming elsewhere. I chuckle.

'Oh, now you want to be friends?'

But it's too late. The damage has been done. They have been initiated.

By the third encounter, they approach me like a bomb disposal technician. Elbows bent, eyes squinting, breathing in patterns taught only to yoga masters and war veterans. They treat me with the kind of reverence usually reserved for ceremonial swords or 'Varak'. (Google that, baby)

Some have even started whispering sweet nothings to me.

'Easy, habibi. Easy'.

One man brought a towel and oven mitts. I respect that.

Word spreads. Guests from colder countries walk out of the bathroom with a limp and a few cuss words. Kids look at me with a mixture of curiosity and inherited trauma. I am no longer just a pipe. I am a rite of passage.

You may curse me. You may scream without sound. But know this: I don't want to hurt you. It's just....the sun. It gets into my head. Literally.

So this summer, dear humans, remember: don't underestimate the Shattaf. I am not your friend. I am not your enemy. I am....a scalding test of character.

Handle me like a grenade. Because, in a way....I am one.

With boiling regards,

Shattaf ibn Blast

The Clueless Tourist Society.

This year, DTAC was happening in Amman, Jordan. When we booked our tickets, we pictured a serene, culturally enriching experience. Sunsets over Petra. Spiritual awakenings at Mount Nebo. Floating like smug buoys in the Dead Sea. Basically, Eat Pray Love, and listen to awesome speakers. We did most, and a few.

The first meal of the day was around 10AM in the flight. After a brief nap at the hotel room and by 3PM, my stomach was growling. Hunger! I reached for the phone and my room mate Katrak suggested, "let us go out and explore the local cuisine". I should have said NO. But I didn't. We both walked out; met Marco and friends in the lobby.

It all went wrong at “We’re just stepping out for food”.

Marco and friends had found an 'economy' category cab driver who offered a comprehensive Jordan tour for an unbeatable price. I patted my grumbling stomach that seemed to tell me that it could wait for 'something on the way'. But we had to wait again since our group were 8 and we needed one more cab. Our cab driver's brother was on his way. He turned up 30 minutes later.

Let us call him Captain Detour (because GPS was clearly optional for him).

My stomach let out a howl. I looked around with embarrassment.

“You want food? I take you good place. Then, maybe small trip. Dead Sea, Madaba, Church of Moses. Easy. No problem", Captain Detour said confidently. A steel covered molar glinted from the corner of his mouth.

This, dear reader, was the moment the group collectively failed the side quest. Against every survival instinct, we climbed into the car, (I, driven by hunger and blind optimism). One friend mumbled, “What’s the worst that could happen?” (We no longer speak to him.)

First stop: A restaurant that may have been a mirage.

He did, in fairness, take us to eat, eventually. We were driven through what felt like multiple time zones, until we reached a roadside restaurant that may or may not have also been someone’s cousin’s house. I saw the place and sat in the car. The brave ones in the cab in front of us ordered 'chai'. The ambiance was “captivity with a view.”

“Now we go Dead Sea. You’ll float! Like magic!”

We cheered. My stomach sank. He took a turn. Then another. Then several that did not seem Dead Sea-adjacent. None of us data connection.

We eventually “arrived” at what we were assured was the Dead Sea. Technically, it was. Spiritually? Emotionally? Not even close. The “viewpoint” he took us to was the Dead Sea’s least photogenic angle: a rocky cliff, no access, and one deflated sign reading “Welcome to Jordan.” You could float in the water... if you were a bird.

One friend was asleep in the back. Another was staring at the horizon, whispering, “Are we still in Jordan or did we loop back to Abu Dhabi?” A third just kept asking when we’d see “the spa from Instagram.” (Never. The answer was never.)

Onward to Madaba! (In Theory)

Captain Detour, encouraged by our silence and Stockholm Syndrome, continued. “Madaba now. Mosaics! Very famous!”

Did we go to Madaba? That depends on your definition. If Madaba is a holy site full of ancient Christian art and architectural glory, then no. If Madaba is a 12-minute stop next to a tire shop while your driver waves vaguely and says “You walk, maybe it’s there?” then yes. Yes, we did. We walked. We never found the mosaics. We did find a man selling cracked fridge magnets. One of us bought three, possibly out of despair.

The church of Moses: The ultimate tease.

“You see Moses! He see promised land from here!” That was the pitch. What we saw was either:

A locked gate.

A construction site.

Or someone’s backyard with a cross on it.

We tried to make it spiritual. We stood silently. Reflected. Took a group selfie that looked like a missing persons alert.

Return journey: Existential crisis in a moving vehicle.

As we drove back in silent defeat, we realized something harrowing: this had all started with a quest for lunch. MY LUNCH!

We had boarded a cab for falafel and emerged from a full-blown biblical detour where we saw approximately the general regions of famous places, but only if we squinted and had Google Images open. By now, half of us were asleep in the cab like kidnapped diplomats. The rest were staring out the window, wondering if we were still technically tourists or just unpaid participants in an experimental geography lesson. My large intestine had swallowed the small intestine.

Final Reflection.

Would we recommend Jordan? Absolutely. It’s stunning. Historic. Majestic. Would we recommend getting into a cab “just to eat” and then casually surrendering all agency to a man with loose landmark logic? Only if you’re emotionally resilient and have low expectations for closure.

Still, we learned a lot:

Never follow a man who says “just small trip.” And no matter what, if you think you are near the Dead sea, you’re probably 45 minutes and 2 prayer breaks away.