by Sangeetha Vallat | Mar 25, 2026 | Musings, Today's Katha
This incident, which happened in 2004, is still fresh in our memories. A group honeymoon that kick-started a tradition of group holidays. The cover pic was taken in 2019 on one of our group holidays.
No Privacy? No Problem! – The Spooked Groom Memories.
It was our fourth wedding anniversary, and we’d planned a holiday to celebrate. Joining us were a couple of close friends, one who had been married just two months, and another, newly married for only a week, who jumped in at the last minute after hearing about our trip.
“I haven’t planned a honeymoon yet,” he said. “It’ll be way more fun if we all go together!”
We weren’t so sure his brand-new bride would be thrilled about spending her honeymoon in a group setting, but he just shrugged it off. “Better to introduce her to our tight-knit friendship right away,” he grinned.
You see, we’d been friends since our school days, since 11th grade, to be exact. The kind of bond that’s rare and lasting, one that survives college, careers, marriages, and still thrives.
We finally decided on Coorg (or Madikeri) as the destination for what we jokingly called our “group honeymoon.”
We arrived on a misty afternoon and checked into a charming old building managed by KTDC. The place had a weathered charm, and the man at the reception barely looked up as he waved a young attendant in a white uniform to carry our bags.
Our rooms were on the first floor, two adjacent ones for us and the other couple, and a “honeymoon suite” at the end of the corridor for the newlyweds. We agreed to freshen up and regroup in the suite.
The suite was spacious and quickly became our go-to hangout spot for evening drinks after a day of sightseeing. As bedtime approached, the rest of us began to leave for our rooms when the newly married friend suddenly said, “Why don’t we all just sleep here tonight? There’s plenty of space.”
We looked at him like he’d lost his mind. “Dude, this is your honeymoon. You really want all of us crashing here? Are you serious?”
He scratched his ear awkwardly. “Machan, just look at this room! The ceiling’s so high, and there’s a deep valley right outside the window. It feels like a horror movie setting. It’s spooky, da!”
We couldn’t stop laughing. We left him in the care of his amused bride and headed to our rooms.
Luckily, she fit into the group effortlessly. That trip kicked off a tradition we still follow, group holidays that now include more friends, their spouses, and even their children. Our circle’s grown, but the essence of our bond has stayed the same—deep, irreplaceable, and built to last.
PS. The new bride confided later that someone at the wedding had quietly warned her to be cautious of me. I guess I stood out, laughing loudly, joking around, mingling freely with the boys, who happened to be my dearest friends. To some, that was ‘unladylike.’ Honestly, it stung a bit, knowing I was judged for simply being myself. But what touched me deeply was that she, along with the partners of my friends and my husband Sujith, chose to see beyond the noise. They saw me, and embraced our friendship and who I truly am.
by Sangeetha Vallat | Feb 3, 2026 | Fiction Bites, Short Stories
Most of the stories I write are lived-in experiences. The Lunchbox is based on a memory from my childhood. Many tiny nuggets surface in my brain, now and then. Some are written, several recede into hiding.
THE LUNCHBOX
That night, Malavika was unable to sleep.
After a night of crumpling her sheets, tossing, and turning, she stared at the clock when daylight peeked into the room. The minutes seemed to crawl as she counted each passing second. On hearing her amma’s voice, she kept her eyes tightly shut, pretending to be asleep, waiting for the familiar footsteps of her parents to come and cuddle and kiss her.
However, this was not an everyday occurrence.
On school mornings, Amma would open the curtains, letting the harsh light rouse Malavika from her slumber. “Malu, it’s time. Get up. Brush your teeth,” she would say, her voice stern. Achan would be in the other room, quietly reading the newspaper.
On weekends, though, it was different. Not amma but achan awoke her in his unique way, calling her name in nine different variations. But the one that made Malu smile most was “Malu, my jeevankutty.” He would run his stubby fingers through her curly ringlets and wait for her to open her eyes. Then, gently drawing back the curtains to shield her from the blinding sunlight, he would scoop her up in his arms. Malu, still half-asleep, would wrap her tiny hands around his neck. Afterwards, he would place toothpaste on her toothbrush and watch her brush sleepily. Those were the mornings Malu loved the most.
But today was different. It wasn’t an ordinary day.
Today, Malu was turning seven, and for her birthday, amma and achan followed a ritual. A grand celebratory way of waking her up together, no matter whether it was a school day or a weekend. Filled with excitement, Malu woke up a little earlier than usual today, but kept her eyes closed, waiting for the familiar song. When they sang a cheerful, if slightly off-key, “Happy Birthday, dear Malu,” she fluttered her eyes open and enveloped her arms around their necks. They carried her to the living room, where the birthday presents awaited her arrival. Malu jumped up and down as she saw her new dress, a red with white polka dot frock with matching pumps and hairband.
Every year, Malu made a list of things she hoped to get for her birthday. She shared it with amma, who would discuss the list with achan. He would sit with a diary, counting the currency notes, while amma rummaged through the rice-and-dal tin in the kitchen to pull out the folded bills. Malu observed as achan unfolded the money and placed it inside the diary. He lifted her onto his lap and tickled her until her giggles filled the room.
This year, however, Malu surprised her parents with a simple request. Instead of a long list of gifts, she asked for just one thing: a new lunchbox, just like the one her friend Amudha carried to school. Amudha’s lunchbox was a tall, vertical steel container with a thin steel handle, unlike the round or square ones used by most children. Malu’s eyes sparkled, becoming round as the poori’s amma made when she described it to her parents. The words tumbled from her lips, often toppling on one another, making little sense.
Amma raised an eyebrow. “Villagers use those to carry porridge, or we can fill oil or buttermilk. Do you want that?”
Achan said, “If my molukutty wants it, then she shall have it.”
“Oh, don’t you pamper her more! She will not be comfortable eating from it.”
“No, amma, I will use a spoon.”
“So, you will eat dosa with a spoon?”
Malu folded her arms across her chest, sticking out her lower lip in a determined pout. She nodded firmly.
“No point in talking to you both. Do whatever.”
So, the weekend before her birthday, Malu walked with her parents down the street flanked by shops selling steel utensils. Amidst the shining steel pots and containers, Malu’s eyes caught sight of the cylindrical container swaying gently from a hook. The rotund, bald storekeeper dawdled closer, noticing Malu’s animation. He grabbed a long stick with a hook at the tip and carefully lowered the hanging container. He dusted it off and smiled. “This is a perfect vessel for oil or buttermilk. Top-quality steel,” he said with a grin.
“Exactly. This is for oil, silly girl. How can you take lunch in something like this?”
Achan glared at amma. “Don’t call her silly.”
“If you lose this lunchbox, I will never buy you another one,” Amma warned.
“My molukutty never loses anything.”
Malu’s eyes met her father’s, and they shared a silent understanding. The deal was sealed. The storekeeper wiped his pate with the dustcloth, pulled a pencil behind his ear, and offered achan a notepad.
“Write the name you want on the container,” he said.
With the whir of a machine, Malu’s name appeared letter by letter, her ownership emblazoned. The storekeeper chuckled, added a small flower after her name, and chucked her chin.
Now, Malu sat mesmerised in her polka frock, gazing as her achan filled a box with eclairs and Amma packed fried rice into the new lunchbox.
As they rode their TVS 50 to school, Malu hugged achan tightly as they lagged behind a walking man. She rejoiced at the adoration of her teachers and friends as she handed out chocolates. At lunchtime, she proudly displayed her new lunchbox, but Amudha’s face stiffened, her lips drawn thin, and her eyes furrowed as she scrutinised Malu’s lunch.
Precisely one month later, Malu arrived at school with her old round lunchbox, cloaked in a dispirited sense of loss. It wasn’t clear whether she had misplaced her precious lunchbox or if amma had taken it to her mother’s house with some payasam, and Granny never returned it. But now, Malu would have to wait another 11 months before she could ask for the same lunchbox again. Or, by then, she would have other pressing needs and newer wishes. Perhaps a year older and wiser, she wouldn’t set her heart upon frivolous belongings.
Pic Courtesy: Cengiz Ozarpart
by Sangeetha Vallat | Sep 17, 2025 | Musings, Today's Katha
A few weeks ago, I chatted with 2 of my cousins whose young children had just started their school life. Memories unspooled of my own school beginnings, and I typed this immediately. Yesterday, a cousin from the UK shared details about the education system and the curriculum, which were quite illuminating. His daughter has graduated from Kindergarten and is now in primary school. Another write-up on that is sure to follow this.
Tiny Shoes, Big Steps: School Beginnings and Brave Goodbyes
It’s back-to-school season, and for many little ones, it’s the very first step into the world beyond their homes. Across the country, tiny shoes are being polished, new uniforms worn with pride, and water bottles and snack boxes packed with love. For many fledglings, it’s their first brush with the outside world. The start of school life is both tender and transformative, leaving behind the familiarity of home and stepping into a room full of strangers, while slowly discovering a new rhythm of the day.
Think about it. For these young children, everything is new. The faces of classmates, the teacher, the school attendant, and even the bus driver. They are asked to do big things: make friends, manage without their parents, follow routines, share toys and indulgence from elders. So many new tasks. So many emotions. So many adventures, just beginning.
Two of my nieces joined kindergarten this year. One of them in Kochi, Kerala, has her older sister studying in the same school. The other is a single child living in Bangalore, Karnataka. Both begin a significant chapter, both stepping into school life with vastly different reactions.
Teju, the Kochi Kutty, had her first day meticulously documented. She posed gleefully for photos, legs tilted, index finger resting on her chin, her lengthy tresses folded into two tidy pigtails. Dressed in a red checkered pinafore, she waved goodbye, then hesitantly stepped into her classroom, eyes constantly darting back to her mother, who stood behind the group of parents, anxious yet hopeful.
Chikku, the Bangalore Baby, on the other hand, didn’t pause for pictures. Clad in a bright CSK-yellow T-shirt and blue pants, her sparse hair tied up into spirited tufts, she confidently let go of her mother’s hand, clasped the attendant’s, and bounced up the school steps, eyes sparkling and grin wide. One quick wave and off she went.
Teju’s school journey started with a few hiccups, leaving her favourite umbrella behind on Day 1 and coming home in someone else’s (smaller!) shoes on Day 2. Each morning still comes with reluctance and negotiation.
Chikku, who already knew most rhymes and stories before starting school, is utterly fascinated by her new environment. She’s enthralled by the sights and sounds of her classroom. Chikku insists on going to school even on Sundays and bursts into tears when it’s time to leave school.
Then there’s another little story from a school run by a friend of mine. She noticed one of her new students crying in class and gently took him outside to the garden, hoping to calm him. She pointed at the teensy-weensy fruits scattered under the trees and suggested they collect them for the birds. “The birds will eat them and say thank you,” she said.
Little Luttu Singh, his long hair tied back in a single ponytail, looked at her, hands on his hips, and replied with piercing logic, “Birds don’t know how to talk. If they can’t speak, how will they say thank you?” Without missing a beat, he added, “You have two phones. Call my mom now and tell her to come pick me up.” In his mind, the school didn’t stand a chance; he was clearly smarter than everyone there!
Hearing these stories stirred up memories of my own first days at school, tales my mother has lovingly repeated so often that I can play them like a movie in my head and vividly picture my younger self. I was a pampered only child and a terribly fussy eater. My poor amma would spend over an hour coaxing me to finish a single idli or biscuit with milk. She would dress me in my pristine white uniform shirt and skirt and braid my hair. She then walked me to school. But the moment the school bell rang, like clockwork, I would promptly project that solitary idly or biscuit back onto my uniform. Amma, always prepared, would rush in, scoop me up to the washroom, clean me up, change my clothes, powder me, tuck a fresh biscuit in my palm, and send me back in. Meanwhile, the ever-gracious attendant would mop up the mess.
This wasn’t a one-time drama. I repeated this routine not for one day, not ten, but for an entire month. Every single year, until I grew comfortable with my new teacher and classmates. In fact, this pattern continued until I reached Class 3!
These moments, however messy or tearful, are such precious markers of growing up. Each child handles school beginnings in their own beautiful way, some with tears, some with twinkling eyes, some with logic sharp enough to question bird conversations!
So, here’s to new beginnings. To the juniors taking their first brave steps into school life. To the parents, sending them off with kisses and silent prayers. And to the teachers, caretakers, and staff who welcome these young souls with warmth and open arms.
Wishing everyone, students, parents, and educators, a joyful and fulfilling school year ahead!
Picture Courtesy: Unsplash- Note Thanum.
by Sangeetha Vallat | Aug 15, 2025 | Musings, Today's Katha
I began typing this blog post in my head while I waited inside the US Consulate for the Visa interview on Jun 17. Of course, the actual typing happened much later.
THE VISA GAMES: PASSPORT, PLEASE…
A year ago, on a Saturday, Sujith announced that we would apply for a US and UK visa today. I raised an eyebrow and continued to surf channels. He carried the laptop to the table, plugged it in, and retrieved his spectacles from beneath a book, “The Psychology of Money.” Yes, he juggles between this book and a massive tome, How Prime Ministers Decide – he has been at it for many months. After some 20 minutes on the laptop, I heard his frustration.
“This bloody thing is asking more questions than you!”
Aha, Sujith hated questions. He usually gave me a single yes or no to a string of questions I texted him. The next thing I heard was the sound of his chair scratching against the floor. Off he went to the balcony, dissipating smoke rings in the muggy air.
“Would you come and help me fill these forms? I am not going to travel alone, am I?”
I switched off the TV, swapped my reading glasses, and pulled up a chair beside him. After 2 hours, we submitted the UK visa application. We took the rest of the day off and opened the US visa application on Sunday.
***
The UK visa interview happened within three months, and we received the visa in 21 days. We even took a holiday trip to London and Scotland. A year has passed since we submitted the US visa application, and today was the D-day. We could have checked the availability of an earlier date by logging in regularly, but since we weren’t in any hurry, we left it untouched. 9.15 was our appointment time. 45 km away was the Consulate, a 40-minute drive. I proposed to go by 7:30 am, but at 7:10, I chewed my nails while Sujith clipped his. Sujith invariably clipped his nails, especially on the days he had something important and an appointment to be at. I think it’s his kind of coping mechanism, a relaxation technique that worked for him but frayed my nerves. I mumbled in a very low voice, lest he delay a few minutes in arguments. 7.59, we started our vehicle. By 8.30, when we hit traffic, I began to squirm in my seat, partly due to my overactive bladder. (I seriously should get it checked, absolutely annoying. Oh, how I encountered wild animals in Kenya, due to this, erm, check out my ‘passport pages’ on my website.) The US website clearly stated that parking wasn’t allowed at the Consulate. We argued about where to park and take a cab. I pointed at spots, but he drove on. Then he finally parked on a street near the Consulate. The Etisalat telephone network played truant, and he couldn’t pay the parking fees. I found a payment meter and hailed a taxi while he battled the meter. Taxis didn’t heed me.
“Aren’t you keeping the mobile in the car? You said we couldn’t carry them inside.” I mumbled in exasperation.
He sauntered to our car to stow the mobile, while I shouted ‘Taxi, taxi’ and ran around like a headless chicken. Sujith ambled casually toward me, a cigarette in his hand, and my face revealed my inner thoughts. He asked a Juice shop guy for directions. The Consulate was just around the corner. 500 metres away. We rushed, or rather I rushed, Sujith puffing on his cigarette, sauntering at a steady pace behind me. I saw the signage, United States of America. I felt as if I had landed in the US of A. Already. A security guard asked us to turn right a little ahead. There we met an African American who smiled and said, “Hello, Good morning.”
I panted. He said, “Are you walking from far?”
“Yes, in the hot sun.” It was 47 degrees. He guided us to the walkway to the right, where we spotted a queue of 10 people. We joined them. No separate line for the locals, men garbed in white and women in black, stood with us. Another family from Kerala was ahead of us in the line. I asked Sujith the time- he said 9.10. I said, Nonsense. Show me the watch. It was 9.11. I expelled a whoosh of relief. By 9:25, we were ushered inside for a walk-through of a scanner, and we deposited our car keys. Sujith had to remove his wallet and belt and hoped he would not be asked to remove his shoes. The security asked me, “Your belt, watch?” I said, “Nope. I don’t have a belt, a watch, or a mobile.” He smiled and waved us inside. We sat in an enclosure with others. As the people seated in the front rows were taken inside, we moved forward to the front rows and waited.
“Where was the Komando resort?” I wondered why Sujith asked me this now.
“Maldives.” We had travelled there a few years ago for my birthday.
“What is the capital?”
I was perplexed. “Male. Do you think they are going to ask me GK?”
“I don’t know. What if they ask? What if they reject our visa if you can’t answer such a question?”
This increased my unease. I quizzed Sujith on some countries and their capitals, as well as some international news.
A Lebanese couple (we saw their passport held in their hands), both beautiful with cute little children aged 8 and 6 approximately, were seated in a row ahead. The daughter, 8, was pulling her father’s cheeks, talking, and playing. The boy was clinging to his mom, and they played a game of rock, paper, scissors.
The girl was bored and asked her father, “Papa, where was I before I was born?”
Papa said, “In your mama’s tummy.”
The wife blushed as she chuckled at her husband.
“Mama, was I inside your tummy?”
“Yes, baby.”
“So where was I after I was born?”
“In the hospital.”
“Then?”
The little brother pealed, “At home!”
The sister wasn’t done yet. “Then?”
“In the nursery, then school, now at the US consulate….” Mama continued until the security guard, who had a torch, a walkie-talkie, and a stick clipped to his trousers, guided us inside.
By 9.45, we entered the central area.
I ran to the washroom while Sujith waited in a queue for biometrics. I am like the animals that mark their territory – wherever I go, I have to use the washroom. At counter 9, the lady took our passports and photos, scanned everything, and directed us to counter 13. There, another lady picked up the passports, typed something on her system, and asked us to record our fingerprints. Left four fingers, right four fingers, and both thumbs. While waiting my turn, I watched the large TVs outside the counters, which played a video on a loop. If your fingers aren’t dry, we cannot take your fingerprints. Use the tissues near the counter to dry them. I kept rubbing my hands vigorously on my jeans. We were then asked to sit in the waiting area for the interview. After 10 minutes, we were directed to counter 4.
All the while, at regular intervals since we left home, Sujith has been harping, “I don’t care if they reject the application. We are just trying. It’s ok, not that I am dying for a US visa.” I caught on early that all these were for me, to prepare me for an adverse outcome, because when our Australia visa was rejected in 2016, it cleaved me. I had planned the trip, watched travel videos, booked flights and hotels, and everything was ruined with the rejection letter. So, I nodded to Sujith and said, “You need not be so pessimistic, and I can handle a rejection.” The US was not on top of my travel bucket list, unlike Australia. I had diligently watched every episode of MasterChef Australia and was also more intrigued by the book “Down Under” by Bill Bryson.
The Lebanese family was at counter four before us, and we overheard the kids answering questions. I noticed now that they were in school uniform; perhaps the parents were dropping them off at school after this. The children responded to the questions asked, including their school’s name and the capital of the UAE. The lady inside collected their passports and bid them farewell. Mama said, “Say thank you to her.” The girl said, Thank you. The boy said, Thank you for coming home. The otherwise tense atmosphere in the waiting room lessened a bit as a few of us let out nervous laughter, hearing his remark. All around, every face reflected stress, so many hopes and dreams stiffened their visage. I watched as the faces lit up and people jaunted out joyfully when their passports were collected. Those who had their passports returned trudged, fighting tears.
Then it was our turn.
Sujith dropped the passports into the counter groove. The lady keyed in something and asked, “What’s your purpose of travel?”
The microphone speakers were next to me. Sujith leaned forward, “Come again.”
“Tourism.” I chipped in. Sujith turned towards me, and I touched his arm. I had told him earlier that he should answer all the questions; I would stay mum, because I tend to give a one-page answer to a 2-mark question.
“Do you have friends or relatives in the US?”
“Friends.” Again, I answered.
Sujith guessed the question, “Friends, my schoolmates are there.”
“Where?”
“They are all over the US.”
“Are you going to New Jersey?”
Both of us were puzzled. We answered in unison, “New York.” Sujith had wanted to land at Heathrow in the UK on his first trip, which we did, and JFK, New York, in the US at first.
Sujith continued, “We haven’t planned anything as such. Want to spend New Year’s in New York and maybe visit Florida.” (We overheard a lady answering earlier, Las Vegas.)
I realised I was sucking my cheeks, Florida?! Where did this come from? Oh yeah, his friend had just been to Florida for his son’s graduation, that must have prompted this answer.
Sujith answered where he worked and about his position/compensation. Then, to the question, since when have you been in the UAE? We provided a detailed explanation of our initial entry into this country and our subsequent multiple stays for employment purposes.
“Do you work?” She looked at me.
“No, I am a homemaker. I worked in the Railways in India. Took VRS. I am also an author; my debut book was published a couple of months ago.” We were warming up, and all that I had heard about answering only to the questions asked, not giving extra unasked information, was forgotten. I stopped short of selling her my book, Platform Ticket. In fact, a friend had suggested that I carry a copy and give it to the interviewer.
“That’s nice. Congratulations.”
I flashed a smile.
“Do you have children?”
“No.”
“You will be travelling with friends or just the 2 of you?”
“Just us.”
“Which other countries have you travelled to?”
Ah, we had this under control.
Sujith started, “Srilanka…”
I clenched my jaw. Really? We are starting with the small stuff. How about the bigger countries we have visited? Then it hit me: Sujith was trying to name the places we had visited year by year….Srilanka was our first international holiday destination, but the UAE was our first international trip.
I jutted in, “UK, Kenya…”
“Tanzania.”
“Maldives.”
“Georgia.”
“Thailand.”
She smiled; she liked our united front!
She pushed a green paper and said, “Collect your passports when you receive the email.
Sujith looked at me quizzically. I gushed Thank you, thank you and pulled him away.
“What?”
“Arrey, if they collect the passports, it means the visa is approved.”
“How do you know?”
“I know. I observed the people. I read in a book, too. Chuckle Merry Spin by Khyrunnisa, in the book, she mentions her getting the US visa and her maiden travel to the States.”
“Good, the book proved a lucky read. I will also read it.”
“Yes, it’s a fun read. Perhaps we will reread Bryson before we travel.”
“Anyways, let’s see the passport with the visa to confirm it.”
I exuberantly thanked the security folks and skipped out, collecting our car keys.
“Wait, I will call a taxi. It’s too hot.”
“Nah! Let’s walk. We are happy. We are going to the US of A!!”
“Hahaha, but why did she mention New Jersey?”
We shrieked together, “Because we had filled in your New Jersey friends’ address while applying.”
Holding hands, in the scorching desert sun, we hopped towards our car.
We collected the passports after a day, and yes, we have a 10-year US visa.
Yayy. Uncle Sam, hope to meet you soon.
Photo Courtesy Unsplash Greg Rosenke
