Without Asking Why

There is always that one person who does not need a reason. A call at an odd hour is enough. A random plan is enough. A sudden need to step out for tea, a last minute movie, sitting beside them in silence, or a night spent ranting about the same things again. They do not ask why now or why again. They only ask where and when.

Half the time you do not even notice when they become part of the day. They fit into whatever is already happening. They listen when the story absolutely goes nowhere. They stay even when there is nothing left to say. They stand with you without judgment. What sets them apart is how consistently they show up. They understand that sometimes all a person needs is company, not advice.

They are not always cheerful or wise. Sometimes they are tired too. They show up anyway. Life begins to feel lighter around them. You step out more easily because someone will join without asking for details. You speak more freely because there is no need for clarity. Even uneventful moments feel complete simply because they are shared. Their presence does not solve anything but it removes the sense of carrying everything alone.

Realization comes much later. You realize how many days were held together by their presence. How often they were the first person you thought of when something small happened. How many evenings ended gently because someone was willing to stay. Maybe, without knowing it you have been that presence for someone else too.

Think of that person now. The one who answered every call. The one who never made you feel like a burden. This is for them. For their patience and their availability. If you can, reach out to them. Tell them what their presence meant. Sometimes acknowledging someone is enough to honour what they have given.

7:42

Mr. K wrote horror stories for a living, which meant he was always rearranging things until they made sense. He wrote most of his stories at the small kitchen table, where he could pretend things were under control. 

Each night he returned to the kitchen in his apartment above a shuttered bakery. It had closed after a small fire no one had ever said how it started. Everything inside stayed exactly as he left it. The chair. The clock. The towel. He missed the mug he used to drink from. Even the knife was always left in the same place, blade turned inward. He kept it that way because he remembered what it felt like to want the blade too close. But by evening, the kitchen no longer felt like a place he belonged. 

He was holding a knife when the phone rang. It was not aiming at anyone. It was just there in his hand, as natural as if he had been peeling an apple. He could not remember the last time he had eaten one. The ringing touched something in him because it meant it had not happened yet.

The clock above the fridge said 7:42.

The second hand in the clock made a loud ticking sound every time it moved. He had never noticed that before. The stew on the stove had been left for too long and a dark brown ring had burned into the bottom of the pot. The burn in the air had the same sweetness the bakery once did. The heat rose from it until steam fogged the small window above the sink hiding whatever lay beyond it. It felt safer not to see. A towel lay on the floor out of place. It was damp.

The phone kept ringing.

When he picked it up there was no voice, only someone breathing slowly on the other end. It sounded like the breathing of someone asleep on the other side of the room. It sounded too close to be coming from the phone. Then it stopped.

He had once written a scene like this years ago, and hated himself for remembering it now.

He stood there, staring at his reflection in the microwave door. Something about his face made him feel watched by himself. The reflection held an unfamiliar smile that his real face had not yet made. 

He rinsed the knife and slid it back into the drawer. Only after it was closed did he realize the blade was no longer turned inward. The sense of being too close to something sharp returned. He did not open it again.

That night his sleep came and went. Each time he drifted off he saw the kitchen again, but not from where he had stood. From above. From the corner of the ceiling. Like footage from a CCTV camera. He watched himself walk across the floor, open drawers, check the front door, wipe the counter with the towel, then wipe it again. In the dream he never looked up.

On the kitchen table in the dream lay a single sheet of paper. He was certain he had not left it there. It was one of his drafts. A story he had abandoned because it had started to feel like something he had lived through. The words were his, but a few lines had been added.

The last line described a man standing in his kitchen at 7:42, holding a knife, while the phone rang. He folded the page and placed it under his notebook, as though trying to keep it from being seen.

Next morning, the smell of stew was still in the room even though the pot was empty. The bottom was scraped clean. There was a pale reddish smear on the rim that did not look quite like food.

The calendar on the wall had today crossed out.

He had no memory of doing that. The ink was darker than the other days.

Small things kept moving. A mug had appeared up in the sink. It was the one he had stopped using after it broke. His shoes were polished and waiting by the door even though he had not gone out. There was a stain on the sleeve of his shirt that would not wash out no matter how long he held it under running water. He had seen a stain like that before, in a story he never let himself finish.

It felt like the apartment was being used by someone who knew it better than he did. Better than he knew himself.

A note appeared on the fridge.

"It is done. Do not look back."

It was in his handwriting. The paper was creased, as though it had been folded and unfolded many times.

He searched every room. There was no sign of anyone else. No broken glass. No blood. Just everything in its place in a way that felt wrong, like a room cleaned after something had been erased.

Time passed, but by evening, the kitchen no longer felt like a place he belonged.

Then the phone rang.

The clock above the fridge said 7:42.

Love For Yamaha

Bikes have always held a special place. Even for those who do not ride there is something about a motorcycle that stirs curiosity and admiration. The sound, the stance or the way a machine feels alive even when standing in idle. For some it is transport and for others it is memory, identity or emotion. For me bikes were never just machines during my childhood. They were dreams parked on roadsides, posters on bedroom walls and a factor that shaped childhood.

My love for Yamaha began in 2009. I did not ride one then. I only looked at the R1. That single bike was enough. As a child I did not understand engine configurations or spec sheets but I understood road presence. The R1 did not just look fast it looked sharp and unapologetic. That was the moment something settled inside. Seventeen years later that feeling has not changed.

The first bike I truly owned was the RX100 in 2018. It was raw, loud and light. Every throttle input, every vibration and every sound felt connected back then. It taught me what a motorcycle could feel like. Later came the R15 V3 in same year. That bike felt special in a different way. It looked like a proper sport machine yet welcomed everyday riding. Precision, Balance, VVA technology or the way it held corners and responded to inputs made it feel like a bike that wanted to be ridden well. It was not just about speed but about connection.

Today I no longer own a Yamaha. I ride a Royal Enfield now. It suits a different phase of life a different rhythm of riding. Yet the love for Yamaha never left. That says something. Brands come and go from garages but only a few stay in the heart.

Yamaha as a brand has always stood for something clear. They do not go behind trends blindly. They build machines with intent. Their engines are refined yet aggressive. Their bikes are known for rider focused engineering. Yamaha machines often feel lighter than they are, sharper than expected and eager in character. Whether it is a commuter, a sport bike or an adventure machine, there is always a sense that the rider was considered first.

Even today if asked to dream the answer remains the same. One day an R1. If the question is adventure the answer is still Yamaha. The Tenere would be my choice without hesitation. That speaks volumes. It is not nostalgia alone but a trust. Trust built over years of watching, riding, owning and admiring a yamaha.

This love comes from the inner child who once stared at a bike more than he ever looked at his books. The child who believed machines could have a soul. That child still exists. He still slows down when a Yamaha passes by. He still listens to the engine note. He still smiles.

Bikes change. Garages change. Life changes. But the love for yamaha does not.

Some choices are made early and never really change. What was yours? 

Parasakthi Movie Review

Parasakthi is a "Tamil" film released today and directed by Sudha Kongara, a filmmaker known for grounding strong political ideas within emotionally driven narratives. The film features Sivakarthikeyan in the lead role with Jayam Ravi playing a pivotal antagonist. Backed by a technically ambitious setup, the film brings together production design focused cinematography and a music driven narrative structure. With its historical and political depth "Parasakthi" positions itself as a film that speaks beyond entertainment and into ideology.

At its core "Parasakthi" deals with the issue of Hindi language imposition and the resistance against cultural and linguistic dominance. As hinted through the trailer the story is rooted in a politically charged period and follows characters who are shaped by the conflict between identity and power. The narrative builds its foundation through personal relationships and gradually expands into a larger socio political drama. 

Performance wise Sivakarthikeyan delivers one of the strongest performances of his career. As Chezhiyan he holds the film with remarkable control, emotion and conviction making his character memorable. Jayam Ravi does a commendable job as the antagonist bringing presence and authority, though the writing limits the depth of his character at times. While a few supporting characters fail to leave an impact, some performances feel underutilised despite the actors being capable. Given Sudha Kongara’s usual depth in character writing the presence of several cameo like roles feels like a missed opportunity.

Cinematography and screenplay remain mixed aspects of the film. The visual treatment fluctuates between striking frames with rich colours and sequences that feel noticeably flat in quality. Certain scenes stand out visually while others show clear budget constraints especially in VFX heavy moments. The screenplay struggles to maintain momentum beyond the ideological core as individual scenes often fail to build organically into the next scene. While the intent is strong the scene construction does not always elevate the narrative forward and this inconsistency becomes evident in the pacing.

Music plays a significant role in shaping the film’s emotional tone. While a few songs feel unnecessary and misplaced within the narrative, they are composed well enough to remain engaging. However such placements also push the film into familiar Tamil cinema territory. In contrast the background score works exceptionally well, enhancing both tension and emotion and often elevating the scenes. The BGM remains one of the film’s strongest assets.

Structurally the film follows a familiar Sudha Kongara pattern starting slow with a romantic setup before easing into the central conflict. The intermission stands out as a powerful high point yet the second half again dips in pace creating an uneven rhythm of highs and lows. That said, audiences familiar with the historical context and linguistic politics will likely connect deeply with the film as it evokes strong emotion and pride.

Overall "Parasakthi" scores high in ideology and emotional intent but struggles to remain consistently engaging. Weak screenplay moments, uneven visuals and song placement slightly dilute its impact. Despite all these it remains a decent watch especially for those interested in Linguistic political history. 

Rating: 6/10 ⭐️

Film Appreciation: 12 Angry Men

"12 Angry Men" released in 1957 directed by Sidney Lumet is not just a courtroom drama but an examination of human behavior, morality and responsibility. The film is set within a single jury room where twelve men are tasked with deciding the fate of a young boy accused of murdering his father. The case starts as a straightforward one supported by strong evidence and gradually moves into doubt prejudice and individual conscience. From the very beginning the film produces a sense of discomfort making the audience feel trapped in the room alongside the jurors forced to listen and observe.

The brilliance of the film lies in its simplicity. There are no flashbacks, no reenactments and no visual depiction of the crime itself. Everything we know is filtered through dialogue, memory and interpretation. This shifts the focus entirely onto the men in the room and the way they think, argue and judge. Juror 8 played by Henry Fonda does not argue that the boy is innocent but insists that this case deserves discussion. This single act of hesitation becomes the moral backbone of the film, making it clear that justice begins not with answers but with questions.

Each juror represents a distinct mindset and social attitude born out of personal experiences, frustrations and biases. The film uncovers these layers showing how prejudice disguises itself as logic and how ego can distort judgment. The racist thinking displayed by one juror, the blind faith in authority shown by another and the emotional projection of personal trauma by yet another are disturbingly familiar. These men are not villains but ordinary individuals and that is what makes the film interesting. It points that injustice does not always come from malice but from carelessness and refusal to listen.

The confined setting is one of the film’s greatest strengths. As the discussion intensifies the room begins to feel smaller and more suffocating. Director Sidney Lumet subtly enhances this effect through camera placement and framing. Early shots are wider allowing space between the jurors, but as tensions rise the camera moves closer using tighter frames and lower angles creating a sense of claustrophobia. The rising heat, the sweat on their faces and the constant noise from outside all add to the emotional pressure within the room. The environment itself becomes a silent participant in the drama.

The dialogue is precise and layered. Every line serves a purpose of either advancing the argument or exposing character. Silence is used just as effectively as speech giving moments of realization and discomfort to sink in. The turning points in the film do not entirely rely on dramatic revelations but on reasoning and small details like the angle of a knife or the sound of a passing train. These moments make it clear that truth comes from observation rather than assumption. Also the gradual change in votes shows that changing one’s mind requires humility and courage.

What elevates this film beyond technical excellence is its ethical depth. The film insists up on the concept of reasonable doubt not as a legal loophole bus as a moral obligation. It emphasizes that every single life deserves consideration regardless of background or social standing. Juror 8’s stance is not heroic in a conventional sense but firmly principled. He listens more than he speaks and challenges others without aggression, making it clear that integrity exists without dominance.

The final moments of the film is powerful precisely because there is no moral sermon. The men simply leave the room having been changed in subtle ways. Some confront their biases, others their anger and a few their indifference.

"12 Angry Men" is considered one of the greatest films ever made because it allows tension to grow from listening. It demonstrates that writing, direction and performances are enough to create a masterpiece. And also this film remains timeless because human flaws have not changed. Prejudice and impatience certainty still shape decisions in courtrooms and beyond.

This is a film that respects the intelligence of its audience and challenges them to think deeply about responsibility and empathy. It also shows us that democracy and justice rely not on assertion but on those willing to question and listen. Because of this moral clarity "12 Angry Men" till date stands as a benchmark for what a meaningful cinema is.

Fire Meets Flower

A friend sent me an image without any context. A flower shop burning, flames rising and a man walking forward holding flowers. She asked me to write something spontaneous. So this is not an explanation or an interpretation. Just a response to what I felt looking at it.

The fire knows how to take
He knows how to hold
Between flame and stem
Love remains the same.

The shop burns with purpose

The flowers burn with meaning

One destroys because it can

The other exists because it must.

 

                               - Sarukrishna R