It was a distant dream for me too!

I had thought of running in a Marathon in 2018. I just searched for marathons and I came across a web page with the name ‘Spice Coast Marathon’. I started reading the web pages slowly and I read it carefully in the frequently asked questions session, the most exciting statement I have read after desiring to be a marathon runner. It was this line,

“Can I walk the course?

Of course! Walk-jog is a strategy used by several different runners, the world over. You can walk, run, roll, or use your legs to complete the distance of the course in any way you like as long as you stick to the stipulated time limits and cut-off times.”

That gave me instant motivation. I spoke to myself, and my voice echoed in my brain, so I don’t have to run throughout the course, I can finish within the time by running, walking, or crawling till I touch the finish line!

That year I registered for the marathon without asking anyone! But I was busy with my official work and couldn’t practice. I just thought of participating in the fun run of 5 KM, but fate had a different plan. I was supposed to travel and would be late, reaching past midnight. My desire to take part in a prestigious marathon abruptly ended there, even though I collected my BIB and T-shirt (my colleague helped me collect it). I thought of waiting until the next year and thereafter the toughest times of COVID too.

In 2022, I saw an update about the Spice Coast Marathon on social media. Inside me, an aspirational runner woke up, and I searched for the registration status online. Without thinking much, I registered with UPI payment, and instantly received a mail and an SMS back. For a moment, I couldn’t believe what I had read in the SMS. I had registered for a 21KM, a half marathon! How can someone who is regularly irregular in doing physical activities take part in a half marathon? Without proper guidance and practice, can anyone finish this? Hundreds of questions circled me! A conflicted me had realized it was too late to correct the instant thought of running a marathon decision!

I knew a few people from the running community, Vani Viswanathan, was one among them. She is an active member of the ‘Soles of Cochin’ running group and was part of the organising team of the Spice Coast Marathon many times. I thought of calling her and asking a favor to downgrade my plans from 21 to 5 KM! On the fourth ring, she attended my call. I asked her, “Are you still part of the Spice Cost?” She said, “What do you want?” I just shared my sad story, how I had registered out of excitement for 21KM, and now want to down-plan it. She listened to me carefully and said, “Arabind, Let me tell you something. If you want to do it, you have enough time. Now we have one month and 17 days to go. If you start practicing slowly, you can still do it.” I opened up and shared my helplessness. She insisted that I should do it. On second thought, I felt it was right and said, “I will do it”.

And I must say, That was one of the most solid decisions I had ever made in my life.

The very next day, I started walking. It continued for 2–3 days, and slowly started increasing the speed. I could cover 2 km initially, which progressed to 5 km and then to 7 km. Even though I was part of a cycling team and continued cycling for about a year, I had never tried running. I never had someone to guide me and thought of getting assistance from the Internet. Some of the videos suggested walk-and-run combinations, and I just imitated it for the next week. One thing was sure. After a couple of weeks, I was feeling positive and never felt discouraged.

I thought of having a companion to motivate me when I walked. I asked my wife, who said she was too busy in the morning, especially taking care of our younger one and sending her to school. She also wanted her me-time, sipping her favorite tea and reading the newspaper.

I usually listen to songs and podcasts while walking and driving. This time, I thought of playing my favorite podcasts and interview videos (without visuals). Each morning, I plugged in my earphones and started listening to interviews and great podcasts. As the speed and mood of the conversations increased, I consciously increased my speed and I was sweating like never before. After so many years, I felt positive and confident about myself. My family was surprised to see a new me, but they thought I would stop in between, as they had experienced in the past.

The event was scheduled for 4th December. As the date was nearing, I had a negative feeling. Would I be able to do it? Would it get canceled like the last time because of my official commitments? I shared my thoughts about running a marathon with my wife. Until then, I had not shared it with her. The week before the marathon, while having my favorite coffee in one of the regular coffee shops with my family friends (she was always worried about my health, especially about my diabetic condition), I just told her I was running my first marathon the very next week. She had doubts and lacked clarity about what I said. I said, “I am doing only a 5 km walk.” She was happy but skeptical about me.

On the previous day, I was excited about my journey, whereas my wife was worried. I gave her confidence and told her I would do only a fun run. She looked at me with a conflicted look and asked me to be safe. I nodded my head.

My elder daughter was always concerned about my health and told me on the previous day to avoid these kinds of adventurous activities. She said, “You are going through a medical condition and you should not try doing hard jobs like these.” I told her that I would be safe.

On 3rd December, I prepared myself. In the morning, I went to collect the bib and T-shirts. I went with my wife and saw her worried face. In the late evening, I thought of preparing myself. I hydrated properly and got ready with my T-shirt, candy bars, bib, and other things. Thinking that a single alarm might not wake me up, I set ten different timings with a small difference in minutes. I slowly started sleeping.

I woke up to the sound of the first alarm and slowly opened my eyes. It was an odd time and I couldn’t believe that I was waking up to run today! I got ready, took all my materials, and set off from home.

While I was driving, I thought of pumping myself up by listening to a peppy song. I couldn’t find the one that I liked and started playing some random Malayalam song. The roads were empty and within no time I reached M. G. Road. I saw police standing at Jos Jn. They stopped me there, asking me to take another route as it was closed for the marathon. I started panicking and went to another junction, the police stopped me and this repeated until the north of MG Road. My mind said, “Arabind, You are going to be late. How are you going to park your car? How would you reach on time?” I drove back to MG Road and took a small road that led to Press Club Road. There, I could see vehicles parked on all sides and couldn’t find a parking space. The designated parking area that I was supposed to use was completely occupied by the runners’ vehicles. I drove and found a space near the Marine Drive Dhanalakshmi Bank. Thank God, I parked and walked towards the venue.

As I entered the main venue, I couldn’t see a crowd. I had a sudden realization — they must have already flagged off the half marathon. I asked someone I met there and realized that I was 11 minutes late.

I told him that I was supposed to run the half marathon. He said, “It’s okay. You’re not that late. You may continue and you will be able to complete it if you wish to.” That motivated me. I asked his name and he said “Rocky.” He also told me even if I complete it, still be a winner. I nodded and confidently started from the starting point. I saw a red light strip on the road at the starting point and thought that it was the RF reader that tracked the run. I ran slowly and by the time I reached Maharaja’s College, I felt I would not be able to complete this and thought it was not worthwhile to continue running. Suddenly, I heard the voice of a volunteer cheering me. I slowed and started walking and took some time to reach Ravipuram. I saw water on the road; it had rained the previous day. Would it rain after some time? Even if it rained, I wouldn’t mind. I would continue my race, I decided firmly. By the time I reached Thevara junction, I saw a huge flashlight approaching my side. The pace was not like an ambulance; it was much slower compared to an emergency vehicle. As it neared me, I realized it was the official timer vehicle of the marathon. They were doing a pilot for a professional runner. I just laughed out loud and said to myself that somebody had just begun running, and on the other side, someone else was running towards the finishing line. Luckily nobody heard me laughing, and I started hastening my movements.

The Venduruthy Bridge before the Naval Base was tough for me. With heavy legs, I finished it and reached in front of the Naval Base. On my way to Thoppumpady from there, I thought about where the return point would be. I thought it must be Thoppumpady. I passed another RF reading equipment just after the NavalBase and saw many people coming running. I felt embarrassed to face them as I was just on my way towards Thoppumpady, while other people were already coming back. That made me think that I am not a professional like them. I am just a beginner. Why should I worry about it? I intend to complete my first marathon and not reach the first 100.

“100? I laughed again. How many people would be there to participate, hundreds, thousands? It’s okay, Arabind, even if it’s in the last, you can complete it”, I motivated myself. I saw hydration points and cheerleaders doing their job and not noticing me, as they were focusing on the runners coming back. I just shouted and said, “Motivate me, guys!” They saw someone coming from the opposite direction. Those youngsters were generous enough to clap for this late runner. I passed a junction just before Wellington Island. A direction board indicated that half marathon people should take a left towards Thoppumpady. I reached the Petrol Pump junction and saw many familiar faces. I made a failed attempt to cover my face and walked towards the Thoppumpady Bridge, Old Harbour Road, the icon of heritage Kochi, the pride of Kerala.

I thought of diverting my attention by thinking random things so that I would not feel tired. I thought about the Britishers who built the bridge. Wellington Island is a man-made island. Under the visionary Bristow, the bridge was constructed, and he developed the island by taking the soil from the reclaimed land in the Marine Drive.

A selfie, right at the Thoppumpady Bridge.

I saw another familiar face, a celebrity singer, coming back from the opposite direction. I saw her face lit up with fulfillment. She is going to complete her Marathon, she must be feeling proud of her!

Just after finishing the Thoppumpady Bridge, I heard the sound of Chenda playing, a team supporting the runners. I saw hydration points and cheerleaders. As I was drowning, losing energy, I was walking. But out of embarrassment, whenever I saw a hydration point, I started running.

When I reached Thoppumpady junction, I saw a direction board that showed FM 26KM | HM 13.2 km. I realized one thing: my return point is not yet reached, and the direction points show it to Fort Kochi’s side. As I passed this point, I saw a large number of people walking. I thought many of them were like me, but because they started early, they got the time advantage. I reached Chullikal Jn and somebody called my name. It was someone I knew, who was part of the organizing team, and he asked why I was late. I said I didn’t get a parking space and that got me delayed. He just consoled me as if I was worried, and he gave some instructions to other organizers.

The direction board

Continuing on my journey, I realized that the return point was not Chullikkal as I had originally thought. Just after finishing that point, a young girl on a cycle started accompanying me. She cheered me on and let me know that it would take one more kilometer to reach the midway point. She also informed me that the organizers had been alerted not to leave since someone was very late, and they needed to have the Radio Frequency reader to gauge my BIB (a chip inside it). They were already planning to take it, but the young girl part of the organizing team indicated them and I just crossed the midway point after a mosque.

The Volunteer girl on a cycle.

Now, I have completed half of the half marathon. The roads were completely restricted to vehicle movement to ensure the safety of the runners and the police were strict with it. By the time I passed this point, I had overtaken one young friend and his mother. That was the first time I passed someone, and it gave me confidence. I firmly decided that I would complete the 21 kilometers. Within 20 minutes, I passed a couple more people, waving and cheering them on.

Back at the Thoppumpady Bridge, I saw a photographer pointing his camera toward me, an official race photographer. Even though I was exhausted, I increased my speed and tried to have a smile on my face. I thought if I got this photo after the race, I would update it on my social media and announce to the world, “Hello my dear friends, I have just completed a marathon, a never expected one in my life!”

I remembered the direction board and calculated in my mind that I had eight more kilometers to complete. By the time I reached back near the Naval Basepoint, the restriction for vehicles had been withdrawn. I saw the buses honking, bikes rushing and trucks racing the accelerators. They had all been put on a stop and were now freed from the restrictions. I slowly jogged and reached the Venduruthy Bridge.

My inner voice told me that I was not going to make it. I felt pain in every inch of my body and thought I would collapse. I knew the beginning of my suffering. The sun was not kind, and I couldn’t withstand the intensity of the sun’s rays, even after drinking water from different water stations. I thought about how my father took me to Sabarimala in my childhood. It was too difficult for a 7-year-old boy to withstand the cold in those days, and it was difficult to climb the divine path with bare feet. That thought gave me energy. If I could complete it at an early age, if I am not doing this now, it’s going to be a failure. With heavy legs, I covered the Venduruthy Bridge.

I thought many times to stop in between. I saw people staring at me. Were they teasing me, or were they thinking, “Why has this man still not finished the race?” I answered myself, “To hell with it.” They must be thinking, “If this obese man can run, why can’t we do it?” I took it positively and made plans to finish my last leg.

When I reached the Shipyard, it was almost impossible to move forward. I knew every step needed to cover Ravipuram, Fine Arts Hall, Gandhi Statue, Maharajas College, KTDC Parking Area adjacent to the Taj Hotel, and finally, Marine Drive. By the time I covered almost 75% of the race, I understood that this race cannot be run with just your stamina. It’s a mental game! I made plans to cover the shortest goals covering each point, and finally, I reached Maharajas and from there crawled to Shanmugam Road.

I had mixed emotions. I could see the finishing point in the distant sight and slowly increased my pace. By the time I reached the small bridge, I started running. I saw a photographer, a few cheerleaders, and organizers standing there. I didn’t stop for a minute; I was running, fearing that I would fall, but I somehow crossed the finishing point. I had finally made it! I couldn’t believe it. Covering all these places at this age, I had finally been able to complete it within the stipulated time.

When I entered the ground, I saw a sea of runners celebrating their day. I saw people taking pictures, laughing, and cheering each other, and some were stretching after the run. An organizer approached me with a specially designed medal and adorned it on me. I couldn’t control my emotions and started sobbing like a toddler. A small group of people asked me whether I was okay. They said I could be proud of myself; I had made it possible. I took the help of someone and took my picture, informing the board, “I am a finisher of 21.1 KM.” I felt like I was on top of the world. I shared the photo with my family group and received my first message from my daughter, “You have done it!” My worried wife congratulated me. I felt relieved.

I saw Rocky, the man who motivated me in the beginning. I said, ‘I just completed the run.’ I am sure he did not recognize me, but I was happy conveying the message to this amazing gentleman. Every other person you come across in your life is there for a reason, right?

While driving back from there to my house, I played the same song that I played in the morning. I felt the song motivating and special this time! Driving back, I thought of the times I almost gave up. I was late, sometimes I was not running. I was walking and even crawling, but I completed it. If I can do this, anybody can do this.

It was the greatest feeling I had ever experienced in my life. I knew this was just another beginning!

I participated in another marathon(Santa Run ☝️) on December 18th Dec 2022, and again on March 19, 👇2023 (GTech Marathon), in Thiruvananthapuram — and the jorney continues!!!

Kochi Marathon on 9th February 2025

After finishing my 4th half Marathon at Kochi Marathon on 9th February 2025

It was just another weekend when I went out with my family to one of our regular dining spots. We ordered some South Indian delicacies and, while waiting for the food, casually scrolled through my smartphone. That’s when Rajesh, an old friend,walked in.

Y. V. Rajesh, a filmmaker with several scripts to his credit, and I had not met in ages. We exchanged pleasantries, spoke for a while, and soon, our food arrived. Rajesh found another place to sit nearby.

As we began tasting the food, he suddenly turned toward me and said, “Arabind, sorry, I didn’t tell you something! I’ve given your name to one of my reel characters. I didn’t ask for your permission. I wanted to tell you, but I couldn’t!”

I was intrigued and asked him which movie and what character he was referring to. His response shocked me — the character was played by Mammootty, named Arvind Chandrasekhar, in the malayalam movie Silence!

Until then, my wife and daughters weren’t paying attention to our conversation. But when they heard this, my elder daughter looked at me in disbelief and murmured, “Is your name really given to a character played by Mammootty?”

I just smiled at her, but she still couldn’t believe it and kept asking the same question to her mother. On the other hand, I was also surprised — if Rajesh hadn’t mentioned it, I would have never known. Deep inside, I was grateful to Rajesh for thinking of me when naming that character.

As I drove back home, my daughters expressed how immensely proud they were of me and my name. In that moment, amidst all the excitement, I found myself silently thanking one person — my father.

Ever since I can remember, my father has been a man of books. He had an undying love for literature especailly Bengali.He read widely like politics, religion, and current affairs. His evenings and weekends were often spent reading. He wanted to name his firstborn after the revolutionary leader, thinker, and Indian nationalist Sri Aurobindo Ghosh.

When it was time for me to start school, my father insisted that my name remain Aurobindo. But when my mother took me for admission, the teacher looked at her in disbelief.“The name doesn’t sound normal,” she said. The Bengali name was unfamiliar, and she cautioned my mother about the challenges her son might face in the future. She suggested changing it to Aravind instead. My mother stood her ground, but a compromise was reached — the name became Arabind, a slight modification that removed the Bengali intonation. My father agreed.

Even though my name is Arabind, people have always called me Aravind — a name they find more familiar. I always wrote my name correctly in my notebooks and textbooks, yet most people only noticed the difference when they saw it on social media. Some even assumed I had changed it later! That’s when I would share the story behind my name.

I’ve always felt my name was different. People often ask about the ‘B’ in it, and it has always served as a conversation starter.

Interestingly, many assume I’m Bengali because of my name. Whenever I travel, people ask if I’m from Bengal!

“What’s in a name?” is a famous line from Shakespeare. While some may argue that a name doesn’t matter, I believe every name holds a unique identity and a story.

Names also invite judgment and assumptions. I’ve had my fair share of experiences in hospitals, institutions, and even government offices where my name was miswritten despite being clearly stated.

People have written my name as Aravind, Arvind, Aravindhan, and even Aravinth. I vividly remember a careless village officer who recorded my name as Aravind on my marriage certificate. When I pointed out the mistake, he shrugged and said, “It’s already written. Nothing can be done now.” Feeling helpless, I walked away. If this had happened today, I would have taken it to social media or filed a complaint with higher authorities!

Looking back, a name is more than just a label — it’s a reflection of history, identity, and the values we carry forward. Mine is a tribute to a great revolutionary, a symbol of my father’s ideals, and a constant reminder of the legacy I uphold.

From casual mispronunciations to an unexpected moment of recognition in cinema, my name has taken on a life of its own. And yet, through it all, I have always embraced it with pride.

As my father enjoys his well-earned retirement, I find myself increasingly grateful — not just for the name he gave me, but for the principles and strength it represents. If a name carries a story, then mine is one I will always be proud to tell.

At the end of the day, the pertinent question remains — what’s in a name? The answer is, quite a lot. A name carries history, identity, and meaning. It shapes perceptions, sparks conversations, and sometimes even leaves a legacy. Names hold significance, and in many ways, they make us whole.

A tribute to the legendary voice of Yesudas, whose melodies have transcended generations, cultures, and borders — forever etched in the hearts of Malayalis.

It’s almost past midnight. I couldn’t sleep, so I got up from bed, grabbed my earphones, and took my phone. I searched for my playlist, and there it was. I played my favorite track, closed my eyes, and waited for that celestial voice to fill the silence.

Zid na karo, ab toh ruko, yeh raat nahi aayegi…
Zid na karo, ab toh ruko, yeh raat nahi aayegi…

A timeless classic by Yesudas echoed in my ears — his eternal voice, so soothing, so divine. As the playlist continued, I drifted off to sleep. That’s the magic of Yesudas’s voice.

I’m sure Malayalees like me have heard him more than even our parents’ voices. Our mornings begin with his songs playing through the loudspeakers of nearby temples. His voice transcends religions and seasons — whether it’s the holy Sabarimala season, Christmas celebrations, or even a political rally, his presence is everywhere.

It was through the radio that I first started listening to him. Back then, mornings began with devotional songs, followed by film songs in the afternoon, and devotional melodies again in the evening. Even when we had hundreds of singers, the majority of the songs we listened to were sung by Yesudas. We always waited for Sundays, which had special programs featuring film songs. He ruled the Malayalam film industry like a king, and no one could match his style or voice.

In my teenage years, I made a surprising realisation — he had sung in other languages too! Though the radio occasionally played his songs in Tamil, Hindi, and other languages, it truly hit me when I started tuning in to the Tamil music programs on Radio Ceylon (now Sri Lanka Broadcasting Corporation). The faint, static-filled transmission would carry Ilayaraja’s compositions and other musical gems. We eagerly listened, absorbing every note.

When my father returned from the Middle East, he brought home a cassette player — a luxury in the early ’80s. I still remember the excitement! Unlike the radio, where we had to wait for our favorite songs, this was different. We could decide when and what to play. One of the first cassettes he brought had songs like Shararanthal Thiri Thanu Mukilin Kudilil and Edavakayalil Ayalkkari. Another cassette contained classical renditions by Yesudas, and that was another revelation — he sang Carnatic music! Though I had heard Carnatic songs before, there was something different when Yesudas sang them. His clarity, diction, and unique style revolutionised classical music.

Back in the day, every aspiring singer wanted to imitate Dasettan (as we fondly call him). From his signature white attire — either a white suit or a white kurta and dhoti — to his neatly groomed beard, he was a style icon. Even his white shoes and watch were imitated. At local temples, churches, and cultural programs, singers would not only mimic his voice but also his appearance.

Once, while coming home from school, I noticed a poster announcing a musical concert to raise funds for a church. It was the late ’80s, in the peak of summer. My heart raced — I had to see the legendary singer! I pleaded with my father, but he dismissed my request. However, after my relentless persuasion, he agreed — though not in the way I had expected. Instead of buying tickets, he took us to my uncle’s house, which was near the concert venue. From there, we could partially see the stage. Though I couldn’t see him clearly, I could hear his voice perfectly. Standing on the rooftop for two hours, I listened in awe. He sang his most popular songs and even took requests from the crowd. That night remains one of the happiest memories of my life.

It took another 4–5 years before I could watch him perform in person. This time, it was a Carnatic concert at our temple. By then, I was old enough to attend temple festivals with my parents’ permission. The entire temple premises fell into pin-drop silence as he began to sing. Unlike today, people were patient back then — they sat cross-legged on the temple floor, absorbing every note. At the end, he even sang a couple of film songs. Another magical evening for a small-town boy.

Have you ever been so captivated by someone’s voice that you just couldn’t get enough of it?

In the late ’80s, a Malayalam movie titled Dhwani was released. I knew nothing about its composer, Naushad, but even before the film hit the theaters, its songs were everywhere. A neighbor of mine had bought the cassette, and the moment I found out, I rushed to his house. His youngest brother played the songs for me. As I sat listening, I noticed a girl in the room — a distant relative of theirs. I requested to hear the cassette again. They agreed, but after the second playback, I sensed their impatience. When I asked for a third time, the boy hesitated and then said, “The recorder is overheating.” Disappointed, I left, unaware that I had been a third wheel. Years later, I found out that the boy and the girl had eventually gotten married! Looking back, I laugh at myself — I was so lost in Yesudas’s voice that I had unknowingly intruded on their moments.

Back in the early ’90s, I had a close-knit friend circle that used to meet at a small coffee shop in my hometown. Everyone in the group was incredibly talented. Behind the coffee shop, there was an empty room where we would gather and sing. That’s where I learned many songs.Raghu, Sreekumar, Babukkutty, Sethu, and many of our friends would sing retro classics — especially Yesudas’s timeless melodies. Looking back, I realise that most of the songs I cherish today were learned from that circle. Those were the good old days — filled with music, songs, and, of course, great camaraderie.

If you had asked me back then what my biggest dream was, I would have said, “A bicycle and a Walkman.”

At 14, my father gifted me a bicycle — one of my most treasured possessions. But a Walkman? That was out of reach. Among my neighborhood friends, we had a system — Raghu, an older friend, owned a Walkman, and he would lend it to me for a day, on the condition that I return it by morning. Imagine that! The younger generation today might find it amusing, but that was how I listened to hundreds of songs in my teenage years.

Years later, in 2007, during my internship at a bank, I received my first stipend — ₹600. I had waited an entire month for that money, and I knew exactly what I wanted. I bought a Sony Walkman for Rs550. The sheer excitement of owning that small, portable music player was unparalleled. Even buying a house or a luxury car later in life never gave me that same joy.

My first job was with Kerala’s first cellular company. As part of their promotional campaign, they organised a grand musical event, headlined by none other than Yesudas himself. This time, I wasn’t just an audience member — I was part of the organising team. Watching him perform from the front row, I realized that time had done nothing to his voice. For three hours, he sang non-stop, mesmerising the crowd. Another unforgettable night.

Years later, in the same town, I had another opportunity to watch his Carnatic concert. This time, I sat among the elite crowd of Kottayam, cherishing every moment.

Being born in the mid-‘70s gave me the rare privilege of experiencing the golden era of Yesudas. But even during the COVID lockdowns, I discovered thousands of his lesser-known songs across languages. Whether old or new, his music remains flawless.Not just film songs — his independent music albums were hot sellers back in the day. We still cherish classics like Vasantha Geethangal, Ponnona Tharangini, and many more, listening to them even now.

Reading the YouTube comments under his songs is a testament to his impact. From Malayalees to Tamilians, Maharashtrians to Biharis, people from all corners of India — and even abroad — respect his unparalleled contribution to music. A man from a small state, speaking a language spoken by less than 3% of India’s population, became a legend across the nation. That is the magic of Yesudas.

Even today, as Or Vadakkan Veeragadha is re-released in 4K, one thing remains unchanged — his voice. No technology can replicate his singing, and no one can replace him.Some of the songs I love are older than me, yet they still feel as fresh as a newly released album.

I consider myself blessed — blessed to have lived in the era of Yesudas. His voice has been the bridge of love, the dream companion of an entire generation, and the soundtrack of our lives.

Dasetta, We Listened to You

When we were happy

When we were in sorrow

When we fell in love

When we traveled

When we sought devotion

When we celebrated

When we sat in silence

When nostalgia embraced us

When we dreamed of the future

Through every moment, your magical voice was there — comforting, uplifting, and timeless.

Thank you, Dasetta, for your discipline, your dedication, and your voice. May you live happily and healthily forever. We love you.

Overcoming Fear, Embracing Growth, and Finding My Voice

1991 — In a College Courtyard.A group of students waited for their turn to present themselves. It was the Meet the Candidate session of the college election campaign. The courtyard served as an open stage, with Gulmohar and Indian Mast trees lined up in a row, forming a natural backdrop. Students from all streams stood on all three floors, eagerly waiting for their favorite candidates to address them.

From college chairman candidates to class representatives from various student political and non-political organizations, each took their turn to speak. The atmosphere was a mix of voices — candidates delivering speeches, applause, comments, and, in between, loud chants of slogan-shouting supporters backing their preferred political parties.

Among them, one student stood with mixed emotions, battling the overwhelming urge to run away. He never wanted to address a crowd and was terrified of speaking in front of hundreds of students. When his turn finally came, he fumbled, his voice weak and shaky, but somehow managed to introduce himself.

The moment he finished and stepped away from the microphone, he felt an immense sense of relief.

That student, who once feared public speaking and fumbled through his introduction, was me — exactly 33 years ago.

I was always a literary enthusiast, writing essays for school competitions. I was also an avid quizzer and had a decent knowledge of current affairs. But public speaking? That was a different challenge altogether. It wasn’t just stage fright; it was the fear of failure due to my lack of the right vocabulary.

I always wanted to be a public speaker, but in those days, the only opportunities we had were listening to political leaders from different spectrums or attending cultural events.

Would you believe that I once listened to then-Prime Minister Rajiv Gandhi — from the front rows? It was during a political campaign, and somehow, I managed to reach the front, or rather, people gave way to the little child I was. A national leader speaking — someone who had just arrived in a helicopter! I was fascinated by his white kurta, sunglasses, and effortless speech. Of course, there was a Malayalam translator too.

After school, one person I listened to with great interest was Kerala’s own Sukumar Azhikode — the king of oratory. I attended half a dozen of his speeches and was always mesmerized by how he played with words, shared rich experiences, and expressed thoughts through anecdotes. His speeches flowed like a river. People never cared about his political affiliations or differing opinions — his thoughts were widely accepted. He dedicated his life to literature and intellectual discourse.

Another influential speaker I listened to was Lal Krishna Advani — the man who shaped a political party with his Rath Yatras. That was in 1996 when I had just started my career as a temporary staff member at a scheduled bank. His speech was long, with a translation, and had an aggressive tone throughout. He traveled the length and breadth of India, gathering people, and eventually, his efforts resulted in the first BJP-led government at the center.

Atal Bihari Vajpayee was another great orator. His style was different — poetic, filled with anecdotes and verses. Unfortunately, I never had the opportunity to listen to him in person, but his speeches are widely available on video-sharing platforms.

As part of my profession, I had the opportunity to listen to one of India’s greatest sons, Dr. APJ Abdul Kalam Azad. I have witnessed him speak in simple yet powerful words. Whenever he spoke, he inspired millions of Indians, especially children.After every event, he would go beyond protocol and interact with the children. I always admired how he asked questions to the crowd and engaged with them. It wasn’t just his oratory skills that made him special, but the way he connected — with innocence, wisdom, and sincerity. His simplicity and profound knowledge continue to inspire people like me and millions of others.

One of the most inspiring speeches I have ever heard is Martin Luther King Jr.’s legendary “I Have a Dream.” He spoke slowly and softly, yet his words resonated deeply with people and provoked thought. I revisit his speech whenever I feel demotivated — it never fails to energize me.

Every speaker has a distinctive style and oratory skill. My unquenched thirst to become a public speaker led me to explore various opportunities.

In 2015, I joined Rotary International and took on several roles, each serving as a stepping stone into the vast arena of public speaking. Over the past couple of years, I have consciously created opportunities to visit clubs as a speaker and develop structured speech modules.

In 2023–24, I introduced a speaker topic, “Pursuit of Happiness,” which narrates my journey as a marathon runner and elaborates on how I achieved my goals after turning 40. In 2024–25, I developed a fun and engaging session titled “What’s in a Name?” exploring the fascinating stories behind people’s names. This year, I speak on “Together, We Rise” — a theme rooted in the humanitarian efforts of Rotary International, highlighting its top five community service projects and inspiring members to embrace the Rotary motto: Service Above Self.

I am also an active member of Toastmasters International, where I regularly participate in meetings, deliver speeches, and take on various roles. Toastmasters has helped me refine my public speaking skills professionally, making me a better leader and a more confident communicator.

The boy who once shied away from his Meet the Candidate event is now a confident speaker. He no longer fears public speaking. Instead, he actively seeks opportunities to improve, invest in learning, and refine his skills.

And one day, he will become a great speaker!

What Is the Most Inspiring Story You’ve Ever Heard?

A rags-to-riches story of a business tycoon? A sportsperson’s incredible comeback after a bad phase? A heartwarming success story of an influencer you follow on social media? I’m sure your mind is flipping through memories, searching for that one inspirational story.

Let me introduce you to Smitha Menon.

Smitha was a bank employee working far from home. She was an ordinary woman, dedicated to her family, living a simple life with no big dreams. Every day, she commuted by train to work, spending more than three hours traveling back and forth. To pass the time, she read books and chatted with fellow passengers.

One day, while traveling, Smitha noticed a magazine that a stranger was reading. The cover had a stunning image of colorful flowers with the title “Valley of Flowers.” She couldn’t resist her curiosity and asked if she could read it. It was a copy of Namaskar, the Air India in-flight magazine.

The article was a travel story written by someone who had visited Uttaranchal — now known as Uttarakhand, the 27th state of India. The traveler described his journey to this breathtaking place, filled with rare flowers and rich wildlife. The words painted a magical picture of Devbhoomi (the land of the gods).

As Smitha read, an unexplainable desire grew within her — she wanted to visit this place. She quietly promised herself that one day, she would.

However, life went on. As she returned the magazine and stepped off the train, reality took over. Like many working women, she buried her dream under daily responsibilities and almost forgot about it. But she was content with her life.

One day, while traveling with her husband and little daughter, something unexpected happened. Another vehicle suddenly appeared in their path. In a split second, her husband swerved to the side, and their car crashed into a roadside fence.

All of them were seriously injured, but tragically, her husband did not survive. Smitha was hospitalized for a long time. She and her daughter miraculously survived, but their lives changed forever.

Her happiness ended that day. From then on, her focus was only on her career and raising her daughter — with the support of her parents.

To find solace, she started a small garden. She nurtured plants and flowers, speaking to them as if they were her children. She shared her sorrows with them, and in return, they gave her peace. She also had a passion for photography and used a small camera to capture the beauty of her garden.

Years passed. One day, while working at the bank, she was helping a customer when she casually asked what he did for a living.

“I’m a photographer,” he replied. “I also organize travel camps across India and abroad. My next trip is to Valley of Flowers.”

Smitha couldn’t believe her ears! After so many years, someone had mentioned her dream destination again. She immediately asked if she could join the trip. The photographer agreed and asked her to prepare for the journey.

Excited but nervous, she shared her plans with her mother. However, her mother was hesitant. She was worried about leaving a teenage girl alone at home and also about how society would judge a widow traveling alone.

Smitha was shocked but determined. She decided to go ahead with her plan.

She started preparing — reading more about the Valley of Flowers, walking regularly to get fit for the hike, and buying warm clothes. She shared her dream with her daughter, who supported her decision. Though her family was skeptical, her parents were happy for her. Her colleagues cheered her on for finally chasing her long-lost dream.

A Journey to Remember

Finally, the day arrived. She traveled with a group of photography and travel enthusiasts, all excitedly sharing their past travel experiences Smitha listened silently, enjoying every moment.

After reaching Rishikesh, they traveled to Govindghat, where they stayed overnight. The next morning, the real journey began — a 16-kilometer trek to the Valley of Flowers.

Every step was a step toward happiness. Even though the hike was tiring, everyone enjoyed the adventure. And then, at last, she arrived.

She stood in the middle of a breathtaking landscape — a sea of colorful flowers with towering mountains in the background. She felt so small in front of nature’s beauty.

Tears rolled down her cheeks. She opened her arms and whispered, “I made it. I finally made it.”

In that moment, all the pain, struggles, and sorrows of her life seemed to fade away. She felt free for the first time.

When she shared her story with me, I could feel her happiness. A woman who had always put her dreams aside, who had lived just for the sake of living, had finally found a purpose.

And this was just the beginning. She continued traveling and following her passion for photography.

Today, Smitha is retired from her bank job and lives in an apartment in Kochi. Her daughter is happily married, and they have a beautiful little girl.

During the COVID-19 lockdown, I asked her, “Isn’t it boring to stay at home all day?”

She just laughed and said, “I have my small balcony garden, and butterflies visit me. I’m happy watching them play around.”

Inspiring, isn’t it?

Oh, I Never Knew You Were a Vegetarian!

I hear this every now and then — people are often shocked when they find out I’m a vegetarian. Some even take it a step further. Rolling their eyes, they ask, “How can you be a vegetarian?” What follows is another set of curious questions:

• Arabind, are you on some kind of diet?
• Do you eat eggs?
• Are you the only vegetarian in your family?
• Seeing you, I wouldn’t have guessed you’re a vegetarian! (What does that even mean? 🤦‍♂️)

These are the common questions I hear almost every day!

In a place where nearly 90% of people eat egg, fish or meat as part of their daily diet, being a vegetarian seems almost unbelievable. Once the initial shock fades, the next inevitable question comes: “How did you become a vegetarian?”

Then comes the follow-up: “Were you born a vegetarian, or is it by choice?”

I usually respond with, “My dear friend, it’s a long story.” That’s when most people lose interest and move on. But a few persistent ones stick around, determined to find out why I made this choice.

A Bangalore Experience That Taught Me a Lesson

In the late ’90s, I went to Bangalore to meet my friends. I was the first among them to land a job, and my idea of a vacation was to visit Bangalore. During my stay in RT Nagar, I met two brothers from Kannur who ran a grocery shop nearby. Over time, we became friends, and the day before I was set to return, they invited me over for dinner.

That night, as we approached their home, I could smell the unmistakable aroma of biryani. They had prepared a feast — Mutton Biryani with date pickle. They asked us to sit, and at that moment, I knew I was in trouble. They had made an elaborate non-vegetarian spread, never realising that their new friend from Central Travancore was a vegetarian.

It was awkward. They felt bad, and I felt worse. They urged me to at least eat the rice after removing the mutton, but I politely declined. I just drank warm water, and they were visibly embarrassed. After that night, I made it a point to always inform my hosts in advance about my food preferences before any lunch or dinner invitation.

But many years later, I came across another embarrassing incident.

A similar situation happened with one of my clients. After the successful completion of a project, they decided to host me and offered a dinner. We arrived on time, shared some laughs, and finally sat down to eat. The table was filled with every possible dish they could prepare — but to my surprise, there was nothing vegetarian except plain boiled rice and pickles.

I quietly started eating, but my hosts kept insisting that I try the fish and meat. To clear the air, I finally said, “I’m a vegetarian.”

They were shocked, as expected. I continued eating my plain rice with pickle and curd while my office colleagues enjoyed the feast. Even when we were leaving, my client still had a disappointed look on his face.

The Struggles of Being a Vegetarian

One of the biggest challenges of being a vegetarian is finding vegetarian food, especially at social gatherings like weddings. While Hindu weddings usually serve a traditional Sadya, at other community events, vegetarian options are often limited. More often than not, the only vegetarian dish available is a sad, emotionless Gobi Manchurian. Many times, they do keep it separately for vegetarians, but our non-veg friends finish it before we even get there!

Traveling abroad is another nightmare. In many countries, finding vegetarian food is difficult, and the concept of vegetarianism itself varies. There were times when I had to survive on just fruits, and whenever I found an Indian restaurant, I would eat like someone who hadn’t seen food in days.

The Moment That Changed Everything

So, how did I become a vegetarian?

One evening in the early ’90s, I was listening to an Osho speech on a cassette in my Walkman. Yes, those were the pre-internet days when I would often listen to speeches. This particular talk was about food and, more specifically, vegetarianism. By the time the tape ended, I had made one of the most significant decisions of my life.

And just like that, I became a vegetarian.

It’s been more than three decades now, and I have never once regretted my decision. Nor do I consider it a big deal. I’m perfectly comfortable sitting at a table with friends enjoying their non-vegetarian meals while I have mine.

I strongly believe that food is a personal choice and should always be respected. My elder daughter has chosen to be a vegetarian, while my younger one eats whatever she likes and follows a non-vegetarian diet. Yet, we are still a perfect family.

A Little Reunion

Back in the early 1990s, a group of friends studied together, sharing dreams and laughter. As the years passed, they parted ways, but many found themselves drawn to the dream city of Malayalees — Bangalore.

Some moved there for further studies, while others visited frequently. Some built their careers in the city, while a few even found their life partners there. Bangalore became an integral part of their lives.

Little did they know that decades later, they would return to the same old city — to relive their Bangalore days.

The college stood atop a small hill, with its main building facing an open ground, surrounded by gulmohar and cypress trees. Students from nearby towns and villages arrived there, stepping into a new phase of life, breathing in the fresh air of freedom.

New friendships blossomed as different groups interacted, forming close circles. Among them, a special bond took shape — a group that would later turn into a a small group called “Friends Forever.”

1991–1993 — the golden era. This was when we met many of our lifelong friends. It was a time of first experiences — our first political affiliation, ideological clashes, fierce arguments, love at first sight, and even some love stories that turned into happily-ever-afters.

I don’t remember exactly how our close-knit gang came together — Aji, Reby, Priyarenj, Manoj, Sunil, and Prince — but we did. We shared everything, from little stories to packed lunches. We had our hideouts within the college vicinity, played cricket, and cards, bunked classes to watch movies, and enjoyed every thrill that student life had to offer.

Even as we moved to different places, we never let go of our bond. Before COVID, we had small reunions and even went on our first interstate trip to Goa. After the pandemic, it was Thekkady, and this year, we chose Bangalore — our dream city.

The Road Trip Begins

We decided on a road trip, driving from Ernakulam to Coimbatore and then heading to Bangalore. Aji and Sunil, who had flown in from Saudi Arabia and the UK, joined me in Ernakulam, and we started our journey on January 26th. Though Reby couldn’t join us due to work commitments, he came to see us off. As for Prince and Manoj, it wasn’t their usual vacation time, so they couldn’t join us. Needless to say, we missed them terribly throughout the journey.

The trip kicked off with old stories and adventures, making the miles fly by. As we reached Coimbatore, we took a halt — after all, the “youngsters” were now hitting their 50s and needed rest!

Early the next morning, we resumed our drive to Bangalore, enjoying the refreshing roads and an 90s music playlist that set the perfect vibe.

On the way, Aji wanted to visit his alma mater in Hosur. Once an industrial town with a thin population, Hosur had now become an extension of Bangalore’s hustle and bustle. He stepped into his college, met some teachers, and reconnected with his past before rejoining us.

After two years apart, we had a lot to discuss on — friends, batchmates, seniors, and teachers. We even recalled forgotten memories. The road trip itself was an adventure, but finally, we reached Bangalore, where we met Priyarenj.

He had planned our food explorations in true Bangalorean style, kicking off with a classic Andhra meal. Afterward, we headed to Nandi Hills, where we had booked our stay. The two-and-a-half-hour drive took us to the Nandi vantage point, overlooking the city beneath.

That night, we had a light dinner and eagerly awaited the sunrise. Except for Priyarenj, who had visited Nandi Hills before, this was a first-time experience for the rest of us.

Waking up at 5:45 AM, we got ready for “the moment.” The chatter of people blended with the chirping of birds as we stood there, witnessing the horizon slowly painting itself with hues of red. Then, the grand arrival of the sun!

We captured hundreds of photos, creating priceless memories after sometime.

After leaving Nandi Hills, we visited the Bhoga Nandeeshwara Temple, which is over 1,000 years old and located near the foothills of Nandi Hills.

from there we drove back to the city and made a stop at the legendary Shivaji Nagar Military Hotel — a paradise for non-vegetarians. While my friends indulged in mutton biryani and mutton chops, I settled for a simple rice and rasam.

Next, we roamed around Indira Nagar, once a posh residential area but now transformed into a bustling commercial hub filled with restaurants, coffee shops, and high-end showrooms. Over coffee at Chai Days, we shared more stories and laughed about old times.

No trip to Bangalore is complete without a visit to MG Road and Brigade Road — the heart of the city’s nightlife back in the day. Walking through those familiar streets, we were surprised to find some old shops still standing strong after two decades. However, many of the iconic pubs had vanished, replaced by modern joints.

That night, though exhausted from all the walking, we couldn’t stop talking. We ended up at Café Coffee Day, Bangalore’s very own coffee chain, and spent hours reminiscing.

Before leaving, I had planned to visit Rameshwaram Café, known for its incredible South Indian breakfast. The experience was nothing short of delightful — a perfect way to wrap up our Bangalore trip.

From there, we drove back dropping off Priyarenj. Then, we continued towards Mysore, Wayanad, and finally Calicut, before heading home to Ernakulam.

It took us 16 hours to complete the return journey, but it was worth every minute — non-stop stories, an amazing playlist, and enough coffee and meal breaks to keep us going.

Our companion for almost 1600Kms

We reached Ernakulam by 3 AM, and it was time to say goodbye. Sunil and Aji left for their respective homes, while I drifted into sleep — filled with memories that will last a lifetime.

Four unforgettable days. A road trip to remember. And Bangalore? Still as beautiful as ever.

Do you remember when you started watching movies?

I vividly remember watching a dubbed Telugu movie with my parents in Thiruvananthapuram. It was in 1980 when we traveled to the capital city for a family trip. The movie was called Sankarabharanam, a Pan-India film long before the days of KGF, Pushpa, or Baahubali.

The first movie that made me sad was a 3D film — but not because of the plot. The theatrical experience was exciting, the story was good, and the actors were great. But I was disappointed when I had to return the thick black 3D glasses — I thought I could take them home!

Watching a movie in a theater wasn’t as easy as it is today. Even though it was one of the most budget-friendly family outings in those days, my parents took us to the theater only occasionally. In my generation, until the 1990s, the only entertainment options were movies in theaters and the weekly films on Doordarshan.

Have you ever watched movies at school? I’m sure the younger generation has never had this experience. We had children’s films screened in schools, for which we had to pay a small fee.

I started with Malayalam films, but as I grew older, I began watching movies in different languages — besides Malayalam, Tamil, Hindi, and, of course, English. Rajinikanth and Kamal Haasan were my favorites in Tamil. I clearly remember watching Dalapathy and Nayagan in theaters. I have always admired every aspect of filmmaking — the director’s vision, the technical brilliance, the music, and, of course, the actors.

One of my all-time favorite movies is Gandhi, directed by the legendary Richard Attenborough. It is considered one of the classics of world cinema. Do you know what makes this film special, aside from being a biopic of one of the greatest leaders of all time? It was made by a non-Indian — a British filmmaker! What an irony! Even today, we have yet to see a better biopic of Gandhi than the one directed by Sir Richard Attenborough.

This movie is also a classic example of how a person’s life should be documented. The role of Gandhi was played by Ben Kingsley. Although he is of Indian origin, he prepared extensively for his role — losing weight, practicing yoga, watching numerous newsreels, and studying Gandhi’s life in detail. The film won numerous awards, including 8 Academy Awards — for Best Picture, Best Director, Best Actor, Best Costume Design, and many more.

Before A.R. Rahman and Resul Pookutty, the only Indian-origin artist to receive an Oscar was Bhanu Athaiya, who won the award for Best Costume Design along with John Mollo. Pandit Ravi Shankar, along with George Fenton, was also nominated for Best Original Score.

It took 18 years to make this film. Before Richard Attenborough, many others had tried to make it but failed. This film used 30,0000 extras, earning it a Guinness World Record for the highest number of people featured in a movie. A carefully made classic, watching Gandhi on the silver screen is an unforgettable experience.

I have often shared my favorite movies: Shawshank Redemption, Invictus, and Interstellar. But above all, I really like Gandhi.

Even after watching it multiple times, Gandhi still gives me goosebumps. Documenting a legend’s life, directed by another legend — it is truly a masterpiece.

Can an ordinary citizen of this Country give a surprise to the Supreme Commander, the President of India?

In 2005, I received a call from one of my clients informing me that Dr. APJ Abdul Kalam, the President of India, would be visiting Kerala in December to inaugurate a Medical college. The event was to be held at a medical college being established in a hilly area on the outskirts of Thiruvananthapuram.

By that time, I had already managed several high-profile events, and my experience gave me an edge. The client decided to appoint my company as the official event manager.

In high-protocol events, the event manager’s role is to design and coordinate the event, working closely with various government departments, including the police and the district collector, while ensuring the infrastructure adheres to strict protocols. It’s a tiring and meticulous job, involving many security and safety instructions from the protocol officer.

As I was driving back from the client’s office to Ernakulam, I began reflecting on how a government event might differ in its conduct and content. Since this was the President’s event, we had no control over the formal proceedings. Then, a thought struck me: why not make the event more engaging by adding a surprise element?

I spoke to the client, a supportive lady coordinating from their side, and asked if it would be possible to get in touch with the President’s office. We wanted to learn his favorite color and what he liked most. Despite being at the helm of India’s nuclear and space missions, Dr. Kalam was known for his simplicity. He lived an ordinary life, spending much of his time reading, practicing the veena, traveling across India, and interacting with children.

When we contacted the President’s office, we learned that his favorite color was navy blue and that he occasionally wrote poetry. That was the hook. I decided to use navy blue as the theme color for the event, incorporating it into the backdrop and other branding. We also requested the President’s office to share one of his favorite poems — without informing him. The poem they sent was challenging, much like his work, filled with technological jargon that sounded more like prose than poetry. But we were determined.

I reached out to a musician to set the poem to music. First, I approached the famous musician Bala Baskar, but he was unable to take on the project due to time constraints. Then, I thought of a young, talented musician who had been performing on television — Afzal Yousuf, a blind musician known for his albums and TV presentations. I sent my colleague to his house with the details. Afzal accepted our invitation with enthusiasm, and the very next day, he came to the college with his associate, carrying his keyboard.

We selected 25 students from the college, and over the next 10 days, they rehearsed the performance. Excitement built as the President’s arrival drew near.

On a sunny evening, Dr. Kalam arrived to inaugurate the medical college and then proceeded to the grand marquee, where thousands of students and visitors were gathered. The event unfolded as planned: a welcome speech, addresses by elected representatives and college officials, and an interactive session with children. Then, the Master of Ceremonies announced the most anticipated part of the day: “A dedication to the President of India by the students of the college.”

I could see the astonishment in Dr. Kalam’s eyes as the students began to sing his poem, set to music. He seemed to savor every moment. As planned, the client informed the President that the composition was the work of a young musician.

The program concluded with the national anthem. I noticed the President giving instructions to his aide, who quickly relayed the message to the police. Moments later, the police approached Afzal and invited him to the front of the stage. Guided to meet Dr. Kalam, Afzal greeted him with his “inner eyes,” as he often described. The President warmly embraced him and praised his work.

I was overjoyed. Everyone congratulated me and my team for the unique idea and for giving the President of India such a memorable surprise.

The next day, newspapers covered the event, publishing photos of the President congratulating Afzal.

I felt immense happiness and pride. Over the years, I’ve managed many events involving Presidents, and central ministers, including the defense minister, and chief ministers, but this one remains special.

It was special because it was the story of an ordinary citizen surprising the People’s President, Dr. APJ Abdul Kalam.

What did I hear? Oh, be mightier than your biggest excuses — those powerful words!

Rajeev Srinivas shared these inspiring words at Bhavans Vidya Mandir in Ernakulam during a demonstration meeting of Toastmasters for the teachers. He recounted a personal experience from his school days when he participated in an elocution contest. Fear gripped him, and all he could do was stare at the audience, unable to utter a word. That moment was life-changing; as an embarrassed child, he no longer wanted to try speaking at future events. But his teacher encouraged him to try again and said these golden words: “Be mightier than your biggest excuse.” Those words of encouragement transformed him, and from that point on, he never looked back.

Today, that once-shy child is a distinguished Toastmaster, a champion speaker, and works with one of India’s most prestigious corporations, TCS.

While listening to his story, I found myself reflecting on how often we surrender to excuses and let them weaken us. We give up too easily and avoid taking on significant tasks in both our personal and professional lives. Looking back, there have been countless moments when, by focusing on our goals instead of our excuses, we became mightier than any obstacle in our way.

Another great day and truly a day of continuous learning.