When A Knee Decides To Stop

There comes a point when the body simply refuses to continue the way it used to. For a rider who never questioned his strength, that moment came without any drama. One morning the knee could handle long distances and heavy machines, and the next it could not even manage a simple jump during badminton. The diagnosis came later. A high grade ACL tear. Not from the game, but from years of riding, the constant pressure, the weight of the bike that slowly pushed the ligament past its limit.

Life changed immediately after hearing that. Movements that used to be instinctive now required planning. Getting out of bed, sitting down, climbing a few steps, even shifting weight from one leg to the other, everything demanded extra care. There was no comfort in routine anymore. Nothing felt stable. The knee acted on its own terms, and he had no control over how long it would behave. People spoke casually about recovery, about patience, but none of them understood what it meant to live with a leg that could collapse at any moment.

Meanwhile a fall came out of nowhere. A small slip on a smooth floor. The knee buckled instantly. The pain was so sharp that he had to grab onto whatever he could find just to keep himself conscious. It was the kind of pain that empties the lungs, that makes the world fade for a moment. After that fear settled in. Every step felt risky. Every corner felt unsafe. The second fall was worse. It happened on a wet patch of floor he did not notice. One small step, one slight shift, and his foot slid out. The knee collapsed instantly, sending him crashing down before he could react. The pain spread so fast that he could not speak for a few seconds. He just stayed there on the cold ground, holding his leg, trying to breathe through the shock. That moment stayed with him forever, because it showed how quickly the body can leave a person helpless.

Waiting for surgery only stretched everything further. No improvement, no relief, just long days of managing pain and long nights where the knee pulsed for no clear reason. The bike remained parked. People kept asking when he would ride again. He had no answer. He did not even know when he could walk across a room without feeling nervous of slipping or hitting an object. 

Some days he tried to act normal. He tried to stand a little longer, walk a little faster, or pretend the pain was manageable. But the knee never let him forget. It forced him to slow down. It showed him that even basic movements could not be trusted anymore. He felt stuck, not just physically but also mentally, watching the simplest tasks become challenges he never imagined facing.

Strength stopped mattering. The only thing that mattered was getting through each day without another fall, without another wave of pain that made the room spin. It became a daily test of staying steady, staying calm and staying upright.

Every night ended the same way. The knee throbbed. The body felt drained from doing almost nothing. And the mind drifted through thoughts that were painful than the injury itself. Some days felt manageable. Most did not. And through all of it, he moved forward in the only way he could, slow and unstable, trying to stay functional in a body that refused to cooperate.

A life balanced on one unstable knee held together by discomfort, fear and the stubborn need to survive the day. A life that continues forward even when everything feels as if it is barely holding on. A life.

Dies Irae Review

"Dies Irae” arrives as one of the most anticipated Malayalam films of the year, bringing together a strong cast led by Pranav Mohanlal along with supporting performances from Sushmita bhat, Ghibin, Jaya kurup, Arjun and others. The film is directed by the talented Rahul Sadasivan with music composed by Christo Xavier and cinematography handled by Shehnad Jalal. The writing has the director’s signature touch, and the film released this month with expectations already high among fans and critics who follow Rahul's craft.

The story begins with a slight unease that slowly spreads through a small community, as strange events begin to take shape around them. A sense of dread grows through the eyes of Pranav’s character who gets pulled into something larger darker and much older than he can comprehend. The film builds its mystery step by step without revealing too much at once and halfway through the tone shifts into something more intense. 

Acting wise the entire cast delivers a fantastic performance. Pranav Mohanlal rises above all his previous work, and truly stands out with a controlled expressive and mature portrayal that shows how far he has grown as an actor. Sushmita, Ghibin, Jaya and the rest of the cast contribute solid performances that hold the film together.

The writing, screenplay and cinematography are where the film shines the most. The plot may not be unfamiliar, but the way it is executed makes it feel fresh. The locations the sets and the prosthetics add an eerie authenticity to the world. The frames feel alive with detail and the visual tone pulls you into a surreal and almost dreamlike experience. The horror sequences and the moments involving blood or tension are executed with stunning realism, and the craft behind each of these scenes shows a team working at the top of their game.

The music and sound department elevate the film even further. The background score stays in your head, and the sound design is sharp atmospheric and extremely effective. Every distant knock, every step and every rising note adds to the fear. For a horror film sound plays a major role, and the team clearly understood that. The limited use of songs also works well as it keeps the tone steady and prevents any shift in mood.

Even though the film is technically brilliant it does not completely justify the horror genre. The number of jumpscares is low and the plot feels familiar even with its strong execution. There is a presence of fear, but it does not fully grip the viewer the way one might expect, especially when compared to the director’s earlier films which set a different standard altogether. As a result the film falls slightly short in terms of pure horror impact.

But overall it remains a decent and well crafted watch with strong performances and exceptional technical work.

Rating: 7/10 ⭐️

EKO Review

"EKO" brings together an amazing cast led by Sandeep Pradeep and Biana Momin with powerful support from Vineeth, Narain, Saurabh Sachdeva and Binu Pappu. Directed by Dinjith Ayyathan and written and shot by Bahul Ramesh the film continues the same team’s creative run after Kishkinda Kandam. Mujeeb Majeed handles the music and Sooraj E S takes care of the editing. The film got released on 21 November 2025.

The story begins in a village where Kuriachan known for his bond with dogs suddenly disappears. The tension rises as Mlathi, a woman who carries an air of mystery starts showing an unnatural control over the animals. Peeyoos moves through a world where fear suspicion and half truths blur together. The film slowly shifts into a space where no one is sure what is real and what is imagined. Beyond this point the plot opens up in layers best experienced directly without knowing too much ahead.

The acting holds the film steady. Sandeep gives Peeyoos an honest vulnerability that makes his fear and confusion feel real. Biana Momin plays her role with strength and restraint. Vineeth, Narain and Saurabh Sachdeva deliver grounded performances that add weight to every scene. Mlathi becomes centre of the film, and the absence of Kuriachan creates a tension that the actors communicate without emotion.

The cinematography by Bahul Ramesh builds the entire mood of the story with its Alluring frames and slow movements. The House and the location feels alive yet distant, as if holding secrets in every empty space. The screenplay stays intact and confident never rushing a moment and allowing the silences to shape the fear. The world feels controlled and carefully crafted, which gives the film its distinct edge.

The music by Mujeeb Majeed blends into the narrative without overpowering it, and the sound design creates an atmosphere that is both calm and chaos. The footsteps, the distant barks and the silent hum of the environment work together to make the tension feel organic. The score slowly tightens around the viewer and becomes one of the strongest parts of the film.

Eko stands out because it trusts its pace and its world. It does not spoon feed explanations and it does not treat the viewer lightly. The film grows in silence, builds fear through suggestion and gives space for interpretation. It has the confidence of a team that understands atmosphere and emotions and rewards anyone who watches with patience.

Rating: 9/10⭐️ 

The Curse Of Remaking The Epics - Part 2

The problem with our cinema does not end with the endless retelling of epics. It goes much deeper than that. It sits in the way our audience reacts when a filmmaker chooses to speak about caste, religion, oppression or anything, that shows the uncomfortable truths of our society. The same people who are willing to watch the Ramayana and Mahabharata a thousand times suddenly become restless when a film talks about the lives of the marginalised. They say it is overdone. They say it is boring. They say it is unnecessary. They ask why these directors cannot make something else.

This contradiction shows the strange mindset that Indian cinema has grown under. People are absolutely fine with a hero fighting a hundred men in a market street. They are fine with item songs that have no meaning. They are fine with intimate scenes that exist only to sell tickets. They are fine with punch dialogues and exaggerated masculinity. They are fine with commercial cinema that repeats the same formula year after year, because it does not question anything inside them. It does not make them uncomfortable. It does not ask them to think.

But the moment a film talks about caste discrimination or suffering of marginalized or the religious issues on someone’s life, suddenly the audience becomes impatient. They say it is forced. They say it is too political. They say it is propaganda. They say it is unnecessary negativity. The same audience that can tolerate the same mythological story for centuries cannot tolerate a social truth for two and a half hours.

This discomfort comes from years of conditioning. Indian commercial cinema has taught its audience that films exist only for entertainment. Films exist to escape reality not face it. Films exist to glorify the hero. We have grown up watching movies that supported fantasy and suppressed reality. So naturally when a filmmaker finally chooses to speak the truth the audience rejects it. Not because the truth is wrong but because the truth threatens their comfort zone.

Who is responsible for this. Is it the directors who kept feeding the audience the same commercial formula until they forgot what meaningful cinema looks like. Or is it the audience that demanded the same kind of films again and again until the industry surrendered completely. It is impossible to separate the two. One shaped the other. One encouraged the other. One lowered the bar and the other accepted it.

In this cycle there is very little space for films that challenge society. When a director talks about caste he is accused of provoking. When he shows religious manipulation he is accused of disrespect. When he portrays oppression he is accused of exaggeration. People are ready to worship epics but not ready to watch their own reflection. They are ready to celebrate gods but not ready to acknowledge humans.

The tragedy is that cinema could have been the strongest tool for change. It could have been the mirror this country desperately needs. It could have been a place where people confront the truth they ignore every day. But that cannot happen in a culture where epics are considered entertainment and social issues are considered burden. That cannot happen when commercial films define the imagination of a whole generation. That cannot happen when comfort is valued more than awareness.

We keep asking why our films do not evolve. The answer is simple. We do not evolve. The industry is only a reflection of its audience. And as long as we reject realism and worship repetition we will continue to live inside the same cycle.

There is a cost to choosing comfort over truth. And someday that cost will be brutal than any epic we put on a screen.

The Curse of Remaking the Epics

Indian cinema is changing on the surface but not in its soul. Every few years we are handed another Ramayana and another Mahabharata dressed in new colours with new faces, filming the same story we have heard a thousand times and somehow this keeps happening without anyone asking the most basic question. Why.

Why are we still stuck in this endless loop of retelling epics, when we live in a world where stories can travel to galaxies and back. Why are directors so comfortable repeating the same narrative and calling it a vision. Why do we as an audience accept it without a single frown simply because it is backed by a belief system.

The answer is not spiritual and it is definitely not cinematic. It is business. Directors know that if they pick an epic they get a cushion automatically. They get the audience of believers. They get the attention of the religious crowd. They get a ticket to immunity because no one in this country wants to criticise anything that sits under the shadow of faith. So they keep doing the easiest thing possible. They take a story that already has an emotional audience and then they pour money on it and call it a magnum opus. They sell the same script in a new wrapper and call it innovation.

Where is the creativity in this. Where is the courage. Where is the risk taking that defines real cinema. This is not brilliance. This is laziness. This is playing safe with a minimum guarantee mindset. If they pick Ramayana or Mahabharata they know they will not fail completely. So why bother writing something new. Why imagine a world in the future. Why build a cinema that challenges the audience or expands their taste. Just pick an epic and sell it. Simple.

Look at the biggest blockbusters in the past six or seven years. You will hardly find a contemporary idea that became a phenomenon. Everything massive is rooted in some epic. The hero is always someone from an ancient story. The villain is always borrowed from mythology. The conflict is always decorated with the language of old glory. There is nothing wrong with epics. But there is something very wrong with repeating them endlessly while the rest of the world is pushing the boundaries of science, fiction, imagination and futuristic storytelling.

We are living in a time of artificial intelligence, space exploration, new technology and cinematic revolutions across the globe. Other industries are creating worlds that do not exist yet. They are experimenting with ideas that challenge humanity. They are asking questions that make viewers think. Meanwhile here we are still sinking money into the same tales that were already told with more soul centuries ago.

This habit is not just about the mindset of directors. It is also mindset of the audience too. People are willing to watch the same epic again and again because belief systems give comfort. They give a sense of safety and a sense of proudness. They give a shield where no one has to think too hard because everything is familiar. It is easier to applaud something when it already has an emotional foundation. And when something is wrapped in religion no one dares to criticise it even if the film is mediocre.

So we stay stuck. The audience keeps accepting. The directors keep recycling. The money keeps flowing. And cinema as an art form stands where it was. While the world builds the future, we keep digging into the past with the same old shovel hoping we will find something new in the same soil.

There is something even more serious beneath all this. A problem that goes beyond cinema and touches the way we think as a society.

Will discuss that in the next blog.

To be continued. 

The Man Who Called Me “Aiyya”

Sometimes kindness does not come in big acts or poetic timing. It sometimes appear on an empty road past midnight, in the voice of a stranger who calls you "Aiyya".

It was around 1am in the morning when I landed in Chennai. The SpiceJet flight had been delayed by three long hours, and what was supposed to be a 10pm arrival had dragged deep into the night. The airport was half asleep, but the world outside still felt alive in fragments, autos lined up, drivers waiting for tired passengers, and a few murmurs of negotiation floating in the air. I had to travel about 30 kilometers from the airport, and what followed showed that even in a world driven by paper bills, there are still moments that feel human.

I had first booked an Uber, but the driver could not come inside the airport premises. He called and asked if I could walk outside, As I had luggage with me, I gave a No. The autos inside were quoting absurd prices like fifteen hundred for thirty kilometers. The cabs were worse, quoting two thousand or more just because I had arrived by flight. The way they priced you was not based on distance but on the assumption that anyone coming out of an airport must have money to spare. Frustrated, I dragged my luggage out to the main road, refusing to give in to that unfair bargain.

Once I reached the main road, I checked Uber again and to my surprise, the same ride I had booked earlier was still active. I called the driver, and he said he could come. He said "Oru 100 ruba potu kudunga aiyya", and I agreed. Soon he arrived, and I felt a sense of relief that after all the chaos inside the airport, I finally had a ride that felt right.

He arrived in an old auto, smiled, and addressed me respectfully as "Aiyya". It was a word I had not heard in a while, simple, humble and deeply rooted in village warmth. It instantly shifted the mood. The road was empty, and for the next thirty kilometers, our conversation filled the night. He must have been in his sixties, maybe a little older. He spoke of politics and the bad roads first, but gradually it became personal. He told me about his heart attack a few months ago and how, despite that, he had to keep working because his family depended on him. When he spoke about his grandchildren, his voice softened. He said their laughter was the only medicine that truly worked.

I could see his reflection in the mirror, his tired eyes lighting up every time he mentioned his grandchildren. Somewhere between the turns and speed breakers, he said Everyone has their own set of problems and We all live in the same pond. It was simple yet wise, an understanding that suffering does not discriminate and everyone is trying to stay afloat in their own way.

Then halfway through the journey, his phone rang. It was his granddaughter. Her little voice crackled through the speaker asking, “Thaatha, enga irukkinga? Eppo varuveenga?” His face glowed with joy as he gently replied, “Thaatha indha vandhiren ma, oru mani nerathula vandhuduren, nee thoongu ma". It was such an ordinary conversation, yet it had the kind of affection that makes you forget how cruel the world can be.

A few minutes later, he hit a speed breaker he had not seen and immediately apologised. “Aiyya, manichukonga, iravu aana naala kann sariya theriyala. Ungaluku edhum aagalaye aiyya?” I told him it was fine. He explained how reflective lines were missing and how, at night, things get harder to see. It was one of those small, honest moments that make you realise how everyone just wants to do their job with dignity.

When we reached my stop, it was around 2am in the morning. I asked him how much Uber showed. He said it was ₹450. I told him, “Anna unga nalla manasuku neenga solunga evlo venumnu". He smiled and said, “Neenga enna kuduthalum manasara ethupen aiyya. Ungalala mudinjadha kudunga.” I transferred him the money, he shook my hand firmly and blessed me, that smile of his stayed with me long after he drove away into the night.

It was not just a ride. It showed that even when everything feels mechanical, apps, fares, ratings, there are still people who move through life with heart. His kindness was not just in words but in how he carried himself, how he spoke, and how he lived despite the odds.

Moments like these stay. They make you believe that goodness has not vanished, it is just hidden in ordinary people, in the little things they do without expecting a recognition. It is in the way a tired old man still smiles at strangers, still believes in honesty, still lights up when his granddaughter calls.

Maybe that is what humanity really is. Not something to be found in revolutions or speeches, but in the conversations that happen between two people on a lonely road at 2am in the morning.

Because sometimes, all it takes to remind you of goodness is a man who calls you "Aiyya"