I stayed in boarding school since I was a child. Being away from home for so many years was not always easy. While the days were filled with classes, chatter, and routine, the nights often brought a quiet ache. There were many nights when I missed my parents deeply. But whenever I looked up at the night sky and saw the moon shining, I used to feel a bit better.
Taken at 7 pm, but the daylight still lingers.
I would tell myself, “My parents must be looking at the same moon from miles away.” That thought gave me comfort. It felt like the moon was the one thing connecting us, even when we were far from each other. It felt like a quiet bridge between our hearts. That soft silver light became my silent companion, gently reminding me that love has no limits.
At 7:28 PM, twilight gave way to moonlight.
Tonight, when I stepped outside for an unplanned dinner with my brother and cousin, I happened to see the moon again. That same comforting feeling returned, but this time, it felt even deeper. Now, when I look at the moon, I think of all the people I love and all the people who love me, no matter where they are in the world. Friends, family, and even those I do not meet often. We are all under the same sky, sharing the same moment.
Paused for paniyaram – The moon followed me.
The moon has a special way of making the world feel smaller and warmer. It shows me that distance only exists on the outside. Inside, love, memories, and connection move freely, faster than anything else. The same moonlight that touches me tonight is touching those I care about too, wrapping us all in a quiet and gentle connection.
So the next time you miss someone, try looking at the moon. Maybe they are looking at it too. And maybe, just like it did for me all these years, the moon will carry your thoughts to them.
Stopped for dosa and she followed me there too.
Do you ever think of someone when you see the moon? Have you felt a little less alone when you looked up at the sky? Who do you feel closest to when the moonlight shines gently around you?
The moon is always there, softly reminding us that love can reach across any distance.
I have this habit of reading good articles and admiring people who have a way with words. The kind of writers who can take everyday thoughts and shape them beautifully.
Back when I was in Chennai, I stayed in Velachery. It was close to IIT Madras, and our church had students from IIT attending Sunday mass. A few of them had become friends overtime. One day, while scrolling through Facebook, I came across some friend suggestions. Most of them were IIT students, probably because of the mutual connections.
Like many of us do, I started clicking through the profiles out of curiosity. One of them was a guy (let us call him X) who used to come to my church and was studying at IIT. I was going through the posts on his wall and one particular post caught my eye. It was a thoughtful post about how someone had helped him prepare for exams and crack the GATE exam. The tone, the language, the flow, the feel, everything about that post felt different. That post led me to search for the author, and that search brought me to Sreedish.
It all began with this post. The one that made me follow him and changed everything.
He was also from IIT, though not from the Madras campus. The post I had stumbled upon was one of his ‘signature Saturday drunk reflections’, written with the perfect mix of humour and insight. I kept scrolling through most of his posts and found myself enjoying every single one. His writing had a certain rawness, a quiet intelligence, and a dry wit that I loved. So, I followed him on Facebook. He kept writing. I kept reading and liking his posts.
One day, he put up a post saying he was going to make his profile private and only those who liked that post would continue seeing his updates. I hit like immediately. Not just because I enjoyed his writing, but also because I discovered we shared a mutual dislike for a certain political party. That just made the connection feel a little more personal.
His post about going private on Facebook.
What happened next was unexpected.
I received a message from him asking how I had found his profile. He said he had tried every possible combination to figure it out but failed. I explained the whole story, from scrolling through IIT profiles to landing on X’s post and finding him through it. That message turned out to be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
This was way back in 2016.
At the time, I had just quit my job and was taking a career break. When he heard that, he asked me to share my resume so he could forward it to some of his friends. I sent him a Word file, and he immediately pointed out a funny mistake, I had written “martial status” instead of “marital status.” He also asked for a PDF version. Since I did not have a personal laptop or system, he converted it himself and passed it on.
That kind gesture stayed with me.
Over time, we kept in touch. We did not speak often, but when we did, the conversations would go on for two hours or more. There was something unfiltered about those chats. No pretence, no judgement, just two people talking about anything under the sun. Over the years, he became someone I looked up to. Someone I trusted.
Sreedish and his wonderful partner in life.
In moments of confusion, especially in personal matters, he was the one I turned to. While I would get stuck in a loop of overthinking and seeing the worst in situations, he had this quiet ability to look at the same problem and find clarity. Talking to him always made things feel lighter. His words would help me take a step back and breathe.
My UK friend, Meta by profession, magic by conversation
Today, he works at Meta in the United Kingdom. Among my close friends, he is simply known as my UK friend.
Yesterday, something strange and wonderful happened. I was lost in a stream of thoughts, and for a moment, he crossed my mind. I smiled to myself and moved on. Just a few minutes later, my phone rang.
Spoke for two hours straight, about life, food, memories, and midlife flourishes.
It was him. We spoke for two hours straight. We touched on everything, from cooking, career choices, and friendships to what we both call our midlife journey. By the end of the call, we agreed that it was not a midlife crisis. It was a midlife flourish. A time of awareness, growth, and quiet transformation.
Looking back, it is beautiful how a simple scroll on Facebook gave me a friend like him. A person I have never met in real life, but who has become such an important part of mine. Friendships like these are rare. They do not shout for attention, but they stay. They grow with time and become steady anchors. So, if you have a Sreedish in your life, someone who understands you, listens with patience, speaks with honesty, and makes you feel lighter, hold on to them. Because not everyone gets to find a friend like that.
Who is your Sreedish? The one you met by chance, but stayed for all the right reasons?
During my college years in Coimbatore, I stayed in a private hostel tucked away near campus. It was not just students from my college but young women from various colleges across the city who shared that space, creating a vibrant mix of backgrounds, dreams, and stories. That is where I met Sr. Rosline.
Sr. Rosline — A nun with a heart full of mischief, kindness, and memories that still make me smile.
She was doing her postgraduation at a different college, and we connected instantly. Perhaps it was our shared roots. She hailed from Idukki, and that simple geographical bond became the foundation for our friendship. We discovered we had so much in common, especially when it came to food. Our taste buds seemed to speak the same language, and we would often laugh about how our friendship could easily revolve around a plate of rice and a good curry.
Since she was a nun, she had a single room to herself. Naturally, that became our space. I was always in her room, chatting, sharing stories, and watching old Malayalam films on her Discman. We would recite dialogues, laugh till our stomachs hurt, and forget the world outside. Every time she returned from a vacation to her convent in Kerala, she would bring back a container of Chakkakuru Manga curry. We would devour it with rice, savoring not just the flavor but the joy of home it brought with it.
Hostel walls, shared stories, and friendships that stood the test of time.
She had a sharp wit and an easy charm. My father adored her when she visited my village home. She was smart, funny, and always stood up for me. I remember when my first mobile, a Nokia 1100, started swelling due to a battery issue. She was the one who called my father and convinced him to get me a Sony phone. That was just who she was !! supportive, bold, and always looking out for those she cared about. I still smile when I think of the little things we used to do during the weekends. I used to paint transparent nail polish on her fingers, and she’d come running to me later, half-laughing and half-scolding, saying her college mates had noticed. We both knew it was all in good fun and it became one of our many inside jokes.
One of my favorite memories is of us sneaking off to pluck mangoes from the nearby convent trees. I always tagged along without a second thought, convinced that if she got caught, nothing would happen, after all, she was a nun. We were each other’s safe space during our Coimbatore days. We traveled together, roamed the city in search of every Kerala hotel that promised a homely meal, and spent countless evenings talking about everything under the sun – especially food and old Malayalam movies. It was a bond built on simplicity and shared comfort.
We believed every mango tree was planted for us to conquer. Mango missions were always led by her with me as the willing sidekick.
One Christmas, our hostel had the usual secret Santa game. Since she was a nun, the warden asked her to begin the event by revealing her Chris Child. She stood up in front of everyone and said, “My Chris Child has the most complete smile in the world.” I knew in that moment it was me. She had always said that I had a complete smile, one that lit up a room. She told me many times that I had been an important part of her life in Coimbatore. What she may never fully know is how much she meant to me too.
After our college days ended, life quietly moved us along different paths. She returned to Idukki to continue her spiritual journey, and I moved to Chennai to begin working. We did not have WhatsApp or easy ways to stay in touch back then, and she did not have a mobile phone of her own. And just like that, the daily conversations faded but not the memories. Not a year has passed without her crossing my mind whenever I think of my Coimbatore days. Once, I even called her provincial house hoping to reconnect. The first time, I was told she was in Africa. The second time, they said she had gone for a 40 day prayer retreat. I kept hoping.
Sr. Anusha – Her call was he beginning of a reunion I had long wished for.
Recently, on June 1st, Sunday, I received a call from Sr. Anusha, another nun who had briefly shared a room with Sr. Rosline during her internship in Coimbatore. We had stayed in touch through email, and I had shared my number with her. That call felt like a journey back in time. We spoke about those beautiful days, the laughter we shared, and the people who had touched our lives in unforgettable ways. Then, with gentle words, she told me that Sr. Rosline had met with an accident and was now bedridden. I was taken aback. It was hard to imagine someone as full of life and energy as her in such a state. Ever since that call, I could not stop thinking about her and wanted to find out where she was and how she was doing.
Who knew this simple photo would travel through hearts and hands to bring two old friends together again? This is the pic I shared with Fr. Wilson
And just yesterday, I reached out to Fr. Wilson, my friend and former vicar from Chennai. and told him how much I wished to find Sr. Rosline. It wasn’t the first time I had spoken to him about her over the years, I must have told him at least thrice how much I wanted to reconnect. I shared everything I remembered (her congregation, the province she belonged to, and even a cherished photograph of the two of us). This time, I told him it truly mattered to me.
Sometimes, God answers through people. Fr. Wilson was that answer for me.
Long story short, thanks to his kind efforts and connections, he was able to find her contact number. This evening, I finally dialed that number,with hope, a little nervousness, and a heart full of memories. And there she was. We spoke for a while. Yes, she confirmed she had met with an accident while in Africa and had been bedridden for some time. But now, with strength and grace, she is getting back on her feet. She is currently serving as the principal of a school in Idukki district.
We spoke about all the memories I had poured into this blog. Our hostel days, mango stealing adventures, Malayalam movie marathons, and the Chakkakuru Manga curry. She laughed, paused, and told me she was truly happy to hear my voice. She said it felt like a little miracle, like God had gently nudged the universe to bring us back into each other’s lives. And maybe He did. Some friendships, no matter how many years pass or how far the roads stretch, always find their way back. I believe ours just did.
Not all angels have wings, some wear a habit, share your rice and curry, and make you feel like home.
If there is someone whose name still lives quietly in a corner of your heart, do not hesitate. Reach out. Sometimes, the universe listens. And sometimes, it responds with a quiet miracle.
Have you ever reconnected with someone after years of silence? Is there someone from your past who still lives in a quiet corner of your heart? Do you have memories tied to a place, a plate of food, or a small act of kindness? Have you ever felt the universe bring someone back into your life just when you needed it most? If you had the chance to say one thing to an old friend today, who would it be, and what would you say?
I have known Sister Ferisha since my 7th or 8th grade. Back then, she was the senior nurse or maybe the head nurse at JM Hospital in Coimbatore. I’m not exactly sure of her title, but what I do remember clearly is the comfort she brought me during one of the most painful recurring experiences of my teenage years: my monthly stomach cramps.
Meet Sister Ferisha – The hands that healed me more times than I can count.
Every month during my periods, I used to get intense abdominal pain. It was so bad that I would vomit and often end up being hospitalized. The pain would only subside after an injection and two bottles of IV drip. Since J M Hospital was close to my hostel and my parents used to consult Dr. Elizabeth there, my hostel warden would book a taxi and take me to the hospital. This happened at least three to four times a year.
At the hospital, I never had to take an OP ticket or wait to see a doctor. The minute Sister Ferisha saw me, she would say, “Oh, you have come?” and promptly get a room ready for me. She would walk in to my room with three bottles of glucose in hand, and I’d groan, “Three bottles? Can we make it two, sister?” She would smile and agree. She remembered exactly what medicines to give me, how my body responded, and what would make me feel better. People who know me well know that injections and IVs don’t faze me. Maybe it’s because I’ have had so many over the years that I just got used to it. Or maybe it’s because the angels at JM Hospital always made it feel a little less scary. And by evening, like magic, I would be back to normal and discharged.
This went on until I completed my Master’s. Then I moved to Chennai for work. One of my only worries was, “what if I have one of those painful episodes again? Who will take care of me like she did?” But strangely, I never had that kind of pain again in Chennai. Maybe the universe knew there was no Sister Ferisha waiting there for me, Or maybe the universe decided I had endured enough pain.
Years passed. I lost touch with her. Life moved on. Then in 2023, life brought me back to her. This time not for me, but for my father. He was unwell and admitted in the same hospital. And there she was again, standing by his side, caring, praying, comforting. Her quiet strength and compassion were the same. Not just her, every nurse at JM Hospital reminded us what angels in uniform look like.
One incident from a recent visit to Coimbatore stays with me. I had some personal work and made an impromptu stop at her house, just to say hi. But within minutes, she ordered dinner for us. While we waited, the animal lover in me kicked in and I started playing with her pet cat, and it scratched my hand. I didn’t think much of it at first, but later I began overthinking, what if I get rabies? Finally, I sheepishly told her. Without skipping a beat, she went to the hospital, got a TT injection, and gave it to me right there at her place. That’s just who she is.
And today, she came to our village for some personal work and stopped by to see us. I told her about a recent snake bite incident, and she got so emotional that her eyes welled up. And then she said something I’ll never forget: “Your dad was a good man. Nothing bad will happen to his kids. God will protect you.”
That’s Sister Ferisha, a nurse, yes. But to me, she has always been a guardian, a quiet constant, and a reminder that some people are placed in our lives by the divine, just when we need them the most. I wanted to take a photo of her to capture these moments. But when you are having a real, heartfelt conversation, taking out a phone is the last thing on your mind. I will share whatever photos I do have of her someday. But for now, I carry her in my heart, the nurse who became family.
Have you ever met an angel in scrubs? Share your story in the comments!
It was a typical Saturday morning. The kind where you don’t expect anything out of the ordinary. But that day, we decided to clean out our garage. Rats had begun nesting there, chewing through wires and even sneaking into our vehicle. It was long overdue. So Mum, my brother, a worker, and I got down to business, cleaning and helping each other. By lunchtime, we were sweaty and tired, but happy with the progress. After eating, I lay on my bed chatting with a friend when I suddenly heard a scream. It rang out loud and then abruptly stopped. I paused. Waited. Nothing followed. I went back to my call.
Noel — The one who drove, stayed, and stood by.
My cousin Noel was also home that day. A few minutes later, I heard Mum calling out for him, her voice laced with tension. I stepped out of my room and asked what happened. She looked at me and said, “I think a snake bit your brother.” My heart just dropped. I felt like I couldn’t breathe.
Some panic, some cry… my brother? He laughs at his own scream after a snake bite.
Panic kicked in. I called Noel on his mobile, and he came running. We rushed to the garage. And there was my brother, just standing there. Calm. Quiet. Not an ounce of panic on his face. For a second, I wondered if something was wrong with him because who gets bitten by a snake and stays this cool? Without a fuss, my brother walked to the jeep, got in, and Noel drove him to the hospital. It’s just five minutes away from our house. Mum was trying to stay strong, but I could tell she was breaking. To make things worse, she said, “I think it was a rattlesnake.” That sent my already spiraling brain into overdrive. I had a thousand dark thoughts flooding in.
Meanwhile, the worker had managed to catch the snake. Thankfully, our neighbor happened to be there that day. He and the worker put the snake in a cover and rushed it to the hospital so the doctors could identify it and start treatment quickly.
Not just neighbours – He rushed with the snake, she stayed with our hearts.
At the hospital, they confirmed that the snake was non-venomous and anti-venom is not needed. My brother was admitted to the ICU for observation. Blood tests were done every hour. His vitals stayed steady. No symptoms. No issues. Later, when we visited him in the hospital, I asked, “Weren’t you scared?” He said, “Nope.”
Our unsung hero who acted fast, saved the day by catching the snake. I wish I had a clearer picture of him.
I turned to my mum and cousins and said, “He’s definitely faking it. No one’s that brave and he must have peed his pants.” But my cousin replied, “No, I don’t think so. His blood pressure was normal the entire time.” Once the chaos had passed and my brother was safely home, I shared the story with my dad’s elder brother. He paused and said, “That’s your father’s courage running in his veins.” And somehow, that felt true in every sense.
What I Took Away from That Day:
Stay calm – Even if it’s a snake bite. My brother did just that. Cool as ever. I still think he’s a little crazy for being that calm… but maybe that’s his superpower.
Grateful – Noel was home and he was the one who rushed my brother to the hospital. Steady, reliable, and always showing up when it matters most.
Location matters – The hospital was only five minutes away and equipped to handle snakebites. Not everyone gets that kind of luck.
People who stay – Our worker, who had plans to travel to his hometown that night, chose to stay back instead. Sometimes, kindness comes from places you least expect.
Right people at the right time – Our neighbor, who doesn’t even live here full-time, just happened to be around that day. He was the one who carried the snake to the hospital for identification. His entire family stayed with us as quiet support. That presence meant more than words.
Family beyond blood – Joby Chettan (Noel’s dad), dropped everything and came running the moment I called. He has been a pillar for us, especially during my my dad’s illness. Some people just carry love like that.
Friends who get it – I had people I could call, cry to, and vent without explanation. That kind of understanding is rare, and I treasure it deeply.
Finally that life can flip in a fraction of a second – But in the middle of chaos, it’s love, presence, and people that hold everything together. Gratitude is an understatement.
I’ve always wanted to drive. That desire started when I was young, watching my dad drive his jeep like a pro. He was effortless behind the wheel, and I was in awe. Someday, I’ll write a post just about his driving skills.
But back then, I never thought I’d be able to learn in my dad’s jeep. It felt too big for me, like it belonged to a different world. I believed I wasn’t built to drive large vehicles, and so the dream stayed quietly tucked away.
From fear to gear — Appa’s Major and me
In college, most of my friends knew how to drive. Some of them would pick me up or drop me off, and I admired their independence. It was more than just getting from one place to another. Driving seemed like a symbol of freedom and style.
I grew up in boarding school and never owned a vehicle. Learning to drive was never an option, but the desire never left me. Years later, when I doing my UG in Coimbatore, I noticed the driving license test was being conducted right outside my hostel. That gave me the push I needed to join a driving school. I got my license in 2006 but never truly used it. I remained a passenger, still admiring those who could drive with ease and confidence, quietly wishing that one day I would be able to do the same.
Next to my uncle’s jeep . Jeeps ran in the family, just like the hills
And then one day, the universe listened.
One evening, I was on a call with my friend Gautham. Somehow, we ended up talking about driving, and I began listing my fears, what if I caused an accident? What if my short legs couldn’t reach the clutch properly? What if I lost control?
He listened patiently and then gave me the nudge I didn’t know I needed. “Your dad has a Major jeep, right? And it’s a four-wheel drive. Try driving in 4WD mode. It moves slow, and you won’t feel overwhelmed by speed.” He explained the basics and reassured me that I’d be fine. That conversation gave me just enough confidence to try.
Gautham – One of the reasons I started driving.
Motivated, I told my dad that I wanted to learn properly this time and was thinking of joining a driving school. He was in a good mood that evening and said, “No need. I’ll ask someone to come home and teach you.” That same night, my brother informed me that Subramanian Anna would be coming at 5:30 in the morning for my first lesson. I was both excited and nervous.
I still remember giving him a small gurudakshina as a sign of respect before we started. From day one, he was patient and calm. He never raised his voice, never lost his temper. He was someone who let silence guide the lesson and corrections land gently.
I learnt to drive in a manual car that had no hill assist. I still remember him patiently teaching me how to use the half clutch in hilly areas. He trained me to stop on an incline and start again without letting the vehicle roll back even slightly. The entrance to our house is on a slope, and he would make me practice there repeatedly using the half clutch until I got the hang of it. I remember failing fourteen times in a row. I was ready to cry. I told him I’d try again some other day, but he simply said, “If you can’t, who can? Keep trying.” To help me overcome my fear of big vehicles, he even made me drive a tempo. Slowly, my confidence grew.
The first few solo drives hit different
My mother often jokes that driving is the only thing I’ve ever completed and stuck with. I tend to stop doing things that don’t hold my interest — tailoring, baking, you name it. I’ve gone to classes and never followed through. But maybe, just maybe, if I meet another teacher like Subramanian Anna in those areas, I might pick them up again too.
A little something to show I really did take a baking class
Each day, he would take me on different routes, and that’s how I got to see parts of Attapady I had never visited before. Those drives became more than just practice. It became little journeys of discovery.
Today, I drive on my own. And I want to tell every woman out there that learning to drive gives you a sense of freedom that’s hard to describe. It’s empowering, it’s exhilarating, and it changes how you see the world. If I can drive, honestly, anyone can.
In just two days, a brand-new addition is joining our family. A bigger vehicle, the XUV 700. And this time, I am ready.
In our plantation, we had three or four naatu mango trees—tall, towering ones that had been there for years. These trees were special. Unlike other mangoes that are picked early and ripened at home, these ones followed their own rhythm. When the wind blew just right, the ripe mangoes would fall to the ground. Their sweet and sour aroma would fill the air long before we even spotted them.
The mangoes were small, a lot like the Chandrakaran variety, but their flavour was unforgettable. Even when they were fully ripe, a hint of sourness lingered.
Every summer vacation, Appa would hand me a plastic bucket/cover and send me out to collect the fallen mangoes. I used to grumble and drag my feet. Though it was called summer vacation, for us in Puliyara the monsoons had usually already begun. The grass would be wet with last night’s rain, the path would be muddy and slippery. Sometimes we would land flat on our backsides in the slush. But there was a reason we had to go early as the wild boars knew about the mangoes too. If we didn’t get there first, they’d have their share.
Despite all the fuss, once we were out there, there was joy in the ritual. We would pick the mangoes one by one, eating a few as we went along—sticky hands, messy faces, hearts full. Whatever was left would go into the kitchen, where Amma would turn them into manga curry.
Today, while having mampazha pulissery for lunch, something about the taste took me straight back to those mornings. The rain kissed air, the smell of ripe mangoes, Appa’s voice calling from the Thinnah (Verandah), and the way childhood felt. It was simple, honest, and full of flavour.
Some meals feed more than the body. They bring back pieces of home.
Another rainy day in Puliyara (my village) and another story that found me when I wasn’t looking. I was walking back to where our jeep was parked, slowly making my way through the slushy path, stopping now and then to take pictures and videos. The greenery was glowing after the downpour, and the Siruvani river was in full spate, overflowing and rushing along with a kind of wild beauty that only the monsoon can bring.
As I was taking it all in, I noticed a woman walking towards me, carrying a bundle of fresh green grass for her cattle. She stopped when she saw me and asked, “Joy chettante mol alle?” (Aren’t you Joy chettan’s daughter?)That question instantly warmed something in me. I always feel a quiet pride when someone remembers me through my father. She smiled and introduced herself. I must have crossed paths with her before, but growing up in a boarding school meant many faces blurred over time. But I did recognize when she mentioned her husband’s name. Funny how familiarity lingers even when memories fade.
She told me that her husband is bedridden. And from what she shared, I’m assuming that her family’s livelihood might come from selling the milk from her cattle.(I could be wrong as well). Still, what touched me most wasn’t the details of her life, but her quiet determination.
It was raining heavily, but she was out there, making sure her animals were fed. She said she needed to cross the bridge quickly. Sometimes the water rises and covers it, making it hard to pass.There was no complaint in her tone just a calm, purposeful sense of duty. Rain or shine, these four-legged lives are looked after with love and consistency.
Moments like these stay with me – simple, quiet, and deeply connected to the land.
At home, I have an Indie dog named Chillumi. She actually goes by many names, and I’m pretty sure she’s often confused because her human keeps calling her different ones. Still, she happily responds to anything I call her. She is my four-legged minimalist with strong opinion about food. She refuses to eat anything other…
Through this blog, I want to take you to yet another beautiful location in Attapady. Today, Ruth’s friends (Dr. Febin and Liz Maria) had come over, and she wanted to take them somewhere special. Initially, we thought of visiting our plantation, but plans quickly changed. Ruth suggested a place, while my brother mentioned Maranatti Falls.…
Back in my boarding school days, evenings after class were the happiest moments we all looked forward to. Not just for the evening snacks, but also for the laughter, chit chat, and fun we shared. We were always super hungry after school, and there was one little joy that made those evenings extra special. It…
Home between the hills 