Life is Beautiful

  Muran - The Dragon Tattoo      2005 - RVS Engineering college of engineering. On a cloudy Monday, things got out of hand. It felt like everything around me was moving at 2x speed. There was going to be a strike — third-year engineering students were planning to protest against my expulsion from college. I had no control over anything. How did I even get here? What happens next? Will I be allowed to continue? How do I face my dad? So much noise. So much chaos. And I was at the center of it — doing absolutely nothing. The actual drama started 3 days ago, on a Friday. My head was already crowded with thoughts. I had wasted my newfound “freedom” during my first two years of college — and now, in my third year, it hit me: we were running out of time. CGPA mattered. Internships mattered. Campus placements and “life after college” suddenly felt terrifyingly close. So, I switched gears — stopped all the fun stuff and focused on grades. On the outside, I acted cool. Ins...

Richest Girl I Know      On my first day of college, my father dropped me at the hostel, said, “Be good,” and left. I was eighteen, joining RVS College of Engineering — chosen not for its reputation or course, but for one reason alone: I got to stay in a hostel far from home.      For the first time, I could breathe, speak, and exist without fear or judgment. It felt less like moving out and more like being born again.      Most kids form a sense of self when they’re two — that’s why it’s called the terrible twos.  For me, it happened at eighteen — that age when you think you know everything about the world, love, people, society, and yourself. Why, you ask?  Let me introduce you to my father. He was called the Hitler of our area — not just by me and my brothers, but by everyone within shouting distance. And no, this isn’t a Santhosh Subramaniam kind of strictness; this was Emdan Magan level tyranny.      Mental ...

Muran 4: Not My Granny I have a small request for you, dear reader. Take a moment—close your eyes if you can—and think of your grandmother, especially your mother’s mother. What comes to mind? Let me help you paint the picture. A gentle smile on a yellow-tinged face adorned with a big red குங்குமப் பொட்டு. Warm, loving eyes that light up with excitement. The faint scent of incense from the pooja room lingers around her. She’s draped in Madurai’s signature sungudi cotton saree, wearing big studs, a tiny nose pin, and heavy gold chains pinned with safety pins. She blesses you every time you sneeze, feeds you your favorite treats, pulls you onto her lap, and smothers you with kisses. She calls you — “என் தங்கம், என் ராஜா, ராஜாதி, என் சாமி, என் தங்கமயில், என்னப் பெற்றாரு” — each word soaked in affection and rhythm. She defends you when your parents scold you: “அவன் சமத்து, பொறுமையா எடுத்துச் சொன்னா புரிஞ்சுப்பான்.” She shares stories of how mischievous your mom or dad once was,...