"You see the aunt there, she is my second maasi (Mom's Sister). She has a kid, now in 8th grade." She told pointing to a woman in the group of people standing. "Wow! she looks too young da.". He replied, looking at her Aunt. "Yeah, she is just 32. She married at the age of 23". "Well, 23 is not a bad age for marriage, no?" He said with a twinkle in his eyes. "You are also 23 now gorgeous". "Ha ha...Yeah! Well, can we get married...say Now?" "Yeah, why not...So we shall go to the church first, since you are a Christian...It doesn't matter much, but still the lady beau is preferred first...right?" "Hmmm...Chalo then, we will go to the church first". And together they went to the church near by, hand in hand. "I want to see you in the white bridal dress... Please... you will look gorgeous in this" "Hmm... let me see...Ok wait here, I will wear this and come" And ther...
Today, I stumbled upon the news I wasn't prepared for! CreativeLive - the platform that had once been a vibrant, inspiring corner of the internet - is shutting down. And as I read the announcement, a wave of sadness and disbelief hit me harder than I expected. It's more than just a website closing. It feels like the quiet end of an era that once held a special place in my heart. I've been a regular visitor of CreativeLive for years. It was more than a place to learn; it was a space that felt alive with passion, purpose, and creativity. Some nights, I'd find myself diving into hours of photography sessions, completely lost in the lessons, scribbling down notes, pausing to absorb a concept, rewinding just to hear a profound insight again. It became a routine, a sanctuary; my own little virtual classroom filled with light. Names like Sue Bryce , Ben Willmore , Lindsay Adler , John Greengo and so many others weren't just instructors to me. They were mentors, gu...
Long before dawn the backwaters of Kuttanad lie like a sheet of ink beneath a sky still deciding whether to be night or morning. On the verandah of the old Nalukettu house, its laterite walls breathing the night’s final coolness, Devassy Kurian keeps first watch with a brass lamp and an enamel mug of chukku kaapi . The lamp-flame draws fireflies; the coffee draws memory. His grandson Adithyan will arrive before noon, the first visit home since joining an aeronautics programme in Bengaluru. The boy’s phone calls are full of jet engines and software internships, yet each end with the same Malayalam lullaby Devassy once hummed to him beside a cradle fashioned from a rice-sack and coir rope. The old man whistles the tune now, soft enough not to wake Ammachi inside, and watches the river darken into indigo, then blue. Across the water a country boat appears. Raman the ferryman stands aft, the bamboo poles a metronome against dawn. He nods; no words are needed. The villa...
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