The Movements

I grew up in a place where the day starts at 4 AM. Not metaphorically but literally. Before the sun even remembers to rise, the newspaper guy has already covered half the city like he is running some secret operation. Tea shops open at 5 AM, blasting the same old tape-recorder songs (or now YouTube playlists on a cracked speaker). The faces changed over time because the old Anna disappeared, suddenly it’s a Vadakkan guy making tea but as long as the tea tasted the same, I didn’t have a problem with migration. Except the Hindi imposition part, anyway, politics aside, because someone from my University will read this and stamp me as “anti-something.”

This is supposed to be a blog on movements. And it's funny because I am writing this a day before my economics exam, totally in the mindset of: what are these exams even going to do for me if I don’t land a job? So yeah, I am chilling.

My city wakes up early, aggressively early. I have started most of my life at 4:15 AM, fitness training, school, commitments. My dad would wake up at 4 AM, take me and my brother for fitness even though both of us had zero potential of becoming world champions. We were those average kids who knew everything but mastered nothing.

But Chennai, it’s a solid city. Morning crows announcing some unofficial press meet, the sun shooting rays directly into your sleepy retina, autos honking like it’s a birthright, trains screaming across tracks, school buses at 8 AM, dogs arguing with cats in the middle of the road. And one legendary mosquito that made sure you never overslept.

Those were the movements.

The pulse.

The noise.

The life.

And then I flipped the whole world upside down and landed in Madrid. Dark windows. Slow mornings. No Zepto. No Swiggy. Not my Mom screaming at 11.30 am to wake me for office. No street dogs I can secretly feed biscuits to. No stories to cook up at midnight to convince my parents that I am at office though i am talking life with my best friend at the same ice cream shop. No rushing on my Jupiter to catch a first day first show. No 11 PM Tea sessions with friends. No singing random heartbreak songs while simultaneously saying “I dont understand LOVE”.

Just quiet.

The movements here are different. Madrid sleeps at 6 am and parties start at 12.00 am. But also everything is slow. Everything is silent. The mosquito population is zero (honestly impressive). I come back home to complete darkness, complete silence. I make my own food. I sit in my room listening to Anthathi and stare at the posters on my wall and suddenly miss people I never thought I would miss this intensely. I dont know, its not that we spulrged more in this one year but we kinda became one in all.

Madrid is beautiful. Truly. It’s soulful in its own adult, calm way. But do I feel inspired? Not really. I don’t feel destructive enough to write the way I used to. I think after coming here, this would be my second blog in these 5 months. My city gave me chaos and chaos gave me stories. Here, the noise in my head just stopped (Really in a good way).

Sometimes peace is beautiful.

Sometimes peace is boring.

Chennai has this specific kind of boredom, the good kind. The kind that smells like filter coffee and Open butter masala Dosa, strictly from Sashwatha Cafe. The kind that comes with auto fight stories, roadside political posters, unemployment, capitalism, love, heartbreak, progressive debates at tea shops, and deeply rooted, insanely kind humans.

There is music that talks politics. There are walls that stare back at you with stories. There’s poverty and privilege breathing side by side. There’s hope, anger, art, frustration and everything happening at the same time. No one will understand Chennai unless they’ve lived it. Not visited but lived.

Madrid is calm. Chennai is movement.

And every time I see a group of friends laughing loudly here, the wind just pulls my mind back home. Someone once said, “the wind always follows.” I get it now. The wind followed me all the way from those 4 AM crows to the silent Madrid nights. And maybe that’s why no matter where I go, my stories begin in one city and end in another.

But the movements? They still belong to Chennai.

I watched PREMAM again

The butterflies are mentally mental and so is love.That’s literally how Premam ends. Malar watching Celine and George, that soft, aching shot, and then that one line that just sits in your chest for hours.

The butterflies are mentally mental, so is love!

It’s a rare piece of cinema, you know? Even Alphonse himself can’t recreate that magic again. That era was something else. When we were still in school, there was this stupid pride in asking someone, “Have you watched Premam?” Because most people hadn’t. And if they hadn’t, we felt superior for absolutely no reason. But that was the vibe. That rare feeling of knowing something before the rest of the world caught up.

We all cried when Unfinished Hopes started playing. I don’t care how many world cinemas come and go, that reverse shot will always be my No.1. Forever. Full stop.

And the close shot, oh God, the close shots. That’s the real beauty of Premam.

Cutting a lemon.

Making chai.

Cleaning a fish.

Those nothing moments that somehow feel like everything. I have watched it a ridiculous number of times, but every single time I finish it, I get this rush like some creative current just wakes up inside me. Like something in my brain opens a small window and goes, “Okay, calm down and let’s live a little.” Honestly, this is one of those moments. I will always be grateful that cinema exists. And for the people who make it. Because without it, without stories, without frames, without music, we’re just humans, doing nothing, feeling nothing, being nothing.

HIGHWAY

If you ask me how this year was, I will say one word - HIGHWAY. Honestly, I am grateful for all those butterfly effects that led me to this day and every single moment I suffered, just to experience a year like this. I was on cloud nine actually, because I have never lived like this in all my 23 years. I travelled every single month. Goa to Switzerland. Mumbai to Madrid. And none of it felt lonely because my friends were the backbone of this year.

We have all outgrown so much. There’s this weird inner peace in each of us now that quiet confidence that we are becoming better humans. And the best part? Even while living in a different country altogether, I have felt more “home” than ever. Every fucking day, someone or the other checked on me.

“Are you okay?”

“Are you eating?”

“Are you finding someone interesting?”

“Are you winning your day?”

Those small things genuinely saved me. If I didn’t have these people, I would’ve slipped into depression without even realising it. Because moving to Madrid hit my social battery hard. I became the opposite version of who I have always been, low energy, low noise, low chaos. And surprisingly, I kinda love it. This low-key version of me. No fuss, no drama. Just existing quietly.

But I’m proud of myself too. Proud that I still took myself places. Proud that I did the things I used to dream about exactly in the way I imagined. I did skydiving. I stayed with complete strangers in an 8-bed dorm in a country I used to only fantasize about. I pushed myself, even when I didn’t feel like it. So yeah I am kinda better, if you ask me.

Probably even when we did the same routine again and again, I only now realise how much we always had to talk about. Just meeting at a friend’s place, catching up after office, or doing our classic Saturday ritual was like book a movie, hit a café, go to the beach, eat ice cream, and fuck off home. Same routine, but it never felt repetitive. It felt comforting. It felt like us.

This year was insane when I look back. I watched Yeh Jawaani Hai Deewani again like it was some yearly tradition. I went for Ed Sheeran’s concert, a blasting one, still echoing in my head and did my last surfing session with my best friend before he left for Canada. We had our convocation in March and, obviously, attended another concert right after because we don’t know how to slow down.

Then there was the cutest, best Bangalore farewell trip for our best friend. And Mumbai, three times: once with my best friend, once with my school friend, and one solo, purely because I felt like it. We did another Bangalore trip at the mid of the year, like a ritual we didn’t want to break. Then came the wild coastal Karnataka trip, four districts, pure madness, one of the best trips ever. And we wrapped it all up with Goa, and till now one of the maddest adventurous trip of mine and it was just before I flew to a place where I knew absolutely no one, and somehow ended up meeting so many new people and trying my best to fit in.

Somewhere in between all of this, I also watched an India vs England match live, went for two IPL matches, and watched Anirudh sing. I’m still extremely sad I missed his actual concert but fine, we’ve already decided we’re doing a Europe Anirudh concert if he ever comes here. I will sell all my property for that, no doubt. I went to Tomatina, lived the ZNMD life and hopefully if my dad doesn't go bankrupt, i wish to travel more.

It was like "You cannot run away from your problems, but you can fly". Every picture of me is this high voltage smile brought to you by 16 months of unemployment and 60 Lakhs of debt, lets me pretend that i am on a travel show!

Looking back now, life was full before I left. The routines, the chaos, the stupid plans that turned into memories. And I miss all of it, every version of home that made me who I am. But probably i would be really grateful to look back and kinda will low-key be proud that i have the best asset of my life - Friendships!

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING TILL THIS.

I hope all of you have the warmest Christmas and the happiest New Year. And honestly? Next Year is going to be a blast for all of us and I can feel it. Let’s make it one. Let’s live it like we mean it.

Next year, we have just one goal and as simple as that: to fly, fly, and just fly in every way possible. Here’s to more skies, more stories, and more ridiculous, beautiful memories.