MyJammyThoughts

 My culinary journey wasn't a gourmet roadmap; it was a spontaneous adventure, a delicious string of happy accidents. And it all began in the legendary Bhargavi Nilayam, a bachelor pad straight out of a movie set (literally, it was in the film "Neram"). Picture this: an old, tiled-roof house, swallowed by a jungle of trees and overgrown patches. This was where my cooking escapades were born. Our chef was a character, a man we called Ikka. He was also the canteen cook at MES College Marampally. Ikka was one of a kind – rarely wore a shirt, and his smile was a roadmap of betel nut stains. His salary? Well, that came with a side of "oru kettu beedi and murukkan" (a bundle of local cigarettes and betel quid) daily. If we forgot, Ikka would unleash a torrent of colorful curses, all with that signature betel-stained grin. When Ikka slept, we Bhargavi boys, myself included, would "borrow" his beedi stash. If we had cash, we'd buy cigarettes, but those wer...

  After completing my plus two, my dream was to pursue higher studies in Bangalore or another state. But my father, who didn’t want me to leave Kerala, pushed me to write entrance exams since I had taken biomaths. As expected, I didn’t make it to the rank list. So, I decided to stay in Kerala and enrolled at National Huda College, Trivandrum. National Huda College was unlike any college I had ever seen. With only 15 to 20 students in a class, boys and girls were separated, even with different class timings. Meeting a girl on or near the campus was a crime; the college had spies everywhere! Yet, my friend Suraj managed to marry Meera, who studied there. Ironically, Suraj was my classmate during my UG in National Huda, and Meera became my classmate during my MSc at MES College Marampally. After just four months, I felt suffocated at National Huda College. Coming from a mixed-culture schooling background, this environment was unbearable. My dear friend Nader, who is no longer with u...

 You might recall from my previous blogs that I wasn't exactly a fan of food as a child. In fact, my parents often struggled to get me to eat! However, a few key encounters and experiences gradually transformed me into a bonafide food lover. My friendship with Shihab played a significant role in this transformation. His mother's delectable fish curry was a revelation, opening my eyes to the joys of home-cooked meals. Moving to a new house brought about another culinary awakening. Our new maid, a kind soul whom I considered family, introduced me to a variety of dishes. Her masala dosa, served hot with flavorful chutneys, was a revelation. She also encouraged me to try "Pazham Kanji," a traditional Kerala breakfast. Initially, the smell put me off, but I soon discovered the magic of combining it with onions, chilies, coconut, and curd. My love for exploring new cuisines blossomed during trips to Thrissur. I would spend hours wandering the streets, searching for hidden c...

 Growing up in a Muslim family, faith was an integral part of my life. I witnessed my mother's unwavering devotion to her prayers, performing them five times a day with unwavering dedication. This early exposure to religious practices shaped my understanding of spirituality, though not always in a straightforward manner. During my boarding school days, attending prayers was mandatory. While I understood the importance of these rituals, I often found myself rebelling, seeking ways to avoid them. The strict adherence to religious practices, such as wearing specific attire for prayers and attending them in a structured manner, sometimes felt more like a chore than a spiritual experience. As I transitioned to a day school, the emphasis on religious observance continued. Evening prayers and Quran recitation became part of my daily routine. While the environment around me was religious, it was thankfully not overly dogmatic. However, my teenage years saw a period of rebellion. I often sk...

Who am I? This question has plagued me for years. I was hesitant to share my personal story, fearing judgment and ridicule. But I've come to realize that self-expression is crucial, regardless of others' opinions. It's about owning your narrative and living life on your own terms. This journey of self-discovery has led me to embrace my own imperfections, including my past insecurities. A Childhood Kiss and a Forbidden Love I vividly remember my first kiss. Not a romantic one, but a sweet peck on the cheek from a young girl in my tuition class. My father, struggling to balance work pressures with my education, had enrolled me in tuition with a kind teacher who often provided me with snacks and showed me unexpected kindness. Her daughter, a classmate, would walk me to the door after class, and it was during one of these walks that she bestowed that innocent kiss upon me. Back in India, at my Islamic school, I experienced a different kind of "love" – a forbidden love...

 A few friends recently reached out, expressing concern about my blog posts. They questioned why I seemed to be critical of my parents, particularly my father. As a father of three myself, I understand the complexities of parenthood. My wife, Noufira, is my best friend and confidante. Unlike my own upbringing, we've consciously chosen to create a nurturing and supportive environment for our children. We believe in fostering their individuality and encouraging them to explore their passions. My father, though a loving provider, was a product of his time. Perhaps influenced by societal norms, he believed in a strict, almost authoritarian, style of parenting. He often appeared to suppress his own joy, creating an emotionally distant environment. Looking back, I believe he may have suffered from a form of suppressed sadness, a hidden sadness that subtly permeated our childhood. Despite his shortcomings, my father was a hardworking man who dedicated his life to providing for his family....

Adolescence – that curious period of life, a time of burgeoning emotions and a yearning for freedom. For me, it was a time of both joy and constraint. Shihab's departure left a void in my social circle, leaving me feeling increasingly isolated. My parents, ever vigilant, restricted my movements. I was allowed to run errands, but only for short durations. A prevailing belief, subtly ingrained in my mind, discouraged close friendships within the village. This, I later realized, was a significant misstep. My father, ever the disciplinarian, maintained tight control, even through frequent phone calls. My mother, ever fearful of his disapproval, rarely challenged his authority. I yearned to break free from these invisible chains, but the fear of my father's wrath always held me back. Curfews were strictly enforced. School trips were out of the question. Staying with relatives in my mother's absence was forbidden. I felt like a bird caged, monitored constantly by the watchful eye...