As we celebrate the 2024 holidays, my hope for each of you is that this holiday season becomes a time of deep connection, filled with cherished moments spent with friends and family. There is no greater joy than the happiness that comes from simply being in the presence of those we love.
It has been a true pleasure curating the articles for the COMA newsletter over the past two years. This journey has been both rewarding and inspiring, allowing me to collaborate with both familiar faces and new acquaintances. I’ve especially enjoyed witnessing the incredible creativity that flows through our Malayali community, and it’s been a privilege to share these stories with you all.
As I write this note for the final newsletter of the year, I want to extend my heartfelt thanks to everyone who has supported this newsletter. From the contributors who shared their stories to the readers who engaged with them, and to all those who took a moment to appreciate my efforts — whether in person, through a kind text, comment, or email — your encouragement has meant the world to me.
“Thank you for being part of this journey. Here’s to new stories, new connections, and new adventures.” – Unknown
Wishing you and your loved ones a merry Christmas and a joyful New Year!
— Smitha Nishant
My rollercoaster ride – My PhD journey – by Dr. Katherine Saju Parakal
(Katherine lives in Powell, Ohio with her husband and two beautiful daughters. For fun, she enjoys watching movies and playing sports, always finding ways to stay active and entertained. She did her PhD in Environmental Science, at OSU, focusing on identifying weaknesses in PFAS fish toxicological studies and improving a PFAS aquatic food web model that risk assessors can use to better evaluate the ecological impacts of PFAS in aquatic food webs.)
It’s funny now to look back and see how life unfolds. After finishing my engineering degree, I never imagined I’d pick up another book. All I cared about back then was landing a job, any job, and making money, nothing else mattered. But here I am, after seven years of study – two for my master’s and five for my PhD. It’s been a deeply personal journey, full of highs and lows, and through it all, my family has been my unwavering support. My husband, my mom, my kids – they have been my pillars of strength, always there to lift me up when I needed it most.
Now, when I look back, everything feels like a blur—those sleepless nights, the frustrated cries, the moments of self-doubt… all of it. What did I miss along the way? I missed so much. I missed precious moments with my little kids—times I could have spent just being with them, playing without a care in the world. I missed quality time with my husband – the simple joys of watching movies together, laughing at our favorite scenes, and playing games late into the night. I missed the comfort of sitting next to my mom, holding her hand, listening to her stories, and sharing mine. I missed being there for her, offering soothing words when she worried. All those small, beautiful moments slipped away while I was caught up in the demands of this journey.
But despite all the challenges, I can truly say this journey has been worth it – not for the dissertation or the title, but for what it has taught me about life itself. Nothing is achieved alone; it takes a village, and I’ve been greatly blessed to have that village. Whether in the form of my supportive husband, my selfless mom, my kids, or my kind neighbor, at every turn, I found love, help, and prayers. I couldn’t let them down. Every time I wanted to give up, they were my motivation to keep going.
When I realized that I wasn’t doing this for myself alone, but for everyone who had supported me along the way, it gave my work a renewed sense of purpose. There’s something deeply powerful about doing something for others – it pushes you to work even harder, to persevere even when things get tough. I prayed constantly throughout the journey, and those prayers gave me the strength to stay calm in the face of uncertainty. God has most definitely been my steady hand.
People had warned me that the defense would be nerve-wracking and to prepare for the worst, but oddly enough, I was calm. I knew that all the people who loved me were praying for me, and even amidst the intimidating faces in the room, I saw a familiar one – my friend who had helped me practice. It was as if God had sent that face just to calm me. I fielded the questions with unexpected ease, and when I was asked to step out for the committee’s decision, I prepared myself for whatever outcome. And when the door finally opened, which felt like an eternity, I looked at my advisor’s face, and he said, ‘Congratulations.’ In that moment, I couldn’t hold back the tears of joy. It wasn’t just my achievement – it was a celebration for all the people who had supported me along the way. That day was as much theirs as it was mine.
This journey taught me: patience – to focus on the problem at hand and suddenly you find yourself at peace, perseverance – failure is good but do not beat yourself up but pick up the pieces and start over, stay away from distractors – there will always be people to dissuade you to tell you that your aren’t enough, keep away from them, keep close the people you love for they will be there no matter what, and be kind – for everyone is fighting their own battle that you may not know of.
At the end of it all, I am filled with nothing but gratitude. Gratitude truly can be a game changer, helping you recognize the blessings even in the toughest moments and giving you the strength to face whatever challenges lie ahead.
As I wrap up this journey, I would like to leave everyone with this message: Please, hold on to this truth – ‘If my mind can conceive it, and my heart can believe it, then I can achieve it.’ May this remind us all that with belief, perseverance, and a little faith, anything is possible.
A Christmastime Catastrophe – by Miriam Cherian
(Miram Cherian is a young author, who is the daughter of Dr. Jisna Paul and Dr. Mathew Cherian. She’s an 8th grader at Grizzell Middle School, Dublin.)
E to G to A to F. E to G to A to F. The first notes in the treble clef of “O Holy Night”, which I would be playing in a few short hours. I anxiously thought about the time ticking down, dreading the moment I would have to play the song. It was almost as if I already knew how the Christmas performance at the church was going to go…
Eventually, I changed into a simple white dress and leggings, left my room, and waltzed down the stairs. After I’d practiced the song again and again, for good measure, I sat at the dark brown piano bench and let thoughts crowd my mind, running my hands over the fabric of my dress. Soon, my mom would come back all the way from Singapore. She’d been on a work trip there for about two weeks, a shorter time than I had been learning my piece. At the moment, I’d have much rather been traveling the world than worrying about a performance. See, when I would have to perform, it wouldn’t only be that I had to play the song on the piano, it was that I had to sing lyrics along with it as well.
Once I’d turned those thoughts over in my mind for a minute, I made myself get up and wandered into the living room, only to find my little sister Rachel sprawled across a black sofa, watching TV. “Are you able to get off the screen and get ready?” I asked her.
“In five minutes,” she responded lazily. Why do I even try? My annoying sister was always a good distraction no matter what. I settled down on another couch.
An hour later, I heard the familiar click of the front door opening. My mom had come back. We didn’t have much time for pleasantries, though, since we had to leave soon. My mom put her stuff down and got ready quickly.
“Have you got everything?” my mom asked me once she was good to go.
“Yes,” I responded, a tiny bit annoyed. She hurried Rachel and me through the garage door. I opened the door to her red minivan, which slid automatically with a whirr, a fearfulness rising in me. Through the window, I could see my grandma bringing my other little sister Anna to the car. Next, my mom rushed through, calling my dad to come as well. A few minutes later, the door shut with a thud as my dad came through. He climbed into the driver’s seat, and we were off.
“Are you feeling ready?” my mom asked immediately.
“Sure,” I responded sarcastically, but by sheer facts, I should’ve. I’d practiced for a while, and I’d dedicated myself to this piece. Despite all of that, though, it still wasn’t enough. I thought about all this as we turned out of the neighborhood, rubbing the leather of the seat anxiously, my eyes fixed on the window. I had this distant look I got when I was deep in my own head. It hadn’t been snowing much that winter, so everything just looked bleak and gray without the mysticality of snow. The thing was, I only felt stage fright toward playing piano, and I’d only felt it recently. In fact, I’d had a solo for the spring choir concert just months before. Why won’t this feeling just go away? I felt relieved that our church wasn’t very close, so the drive was a bit long.
However, tree by tree, minute by minute, we got closer, and suddenly I was pushing through the door with a light woosh. My family and I entered quietly, setting our bags and music down, yet my mind was as loud as could be. That was when the first pieces of my catastrophe began to come together, as my mom and I walked toward one of the leaders in our church.
“So she’ll be playing on that black piano in the corner, right?” my mom asked.
“No…but we can set up one of the electric pianos for her,” he replied. I was taken aback. An electric piano? The weight of the keys are different, and I’ve never practiced this song on an electric piano, I thought. This is not good. This can’t be good. With the church leader and my mom, I strutted up to the piano once it was set up.
“What about the music stand?” I wondered aloud as it was nowhere to be seen.
“We can place a spare music stand, and you’ll play standing,” he explained. More things that were changed? I’d never played a song standing, not even in practice, but I didn’t say anything about it. Quietly I sat in my seat as the service began, trying my best to keep track of how far it was from my turn on the agenda, ruminating on the onslaught of changes that had come. 6 events. A choir sang. 4 events. I came up and read a section from the bible. 2 events. 1 event. MY TURN.
Clop. Clop. Clop. I tentatively walked to the front of the room, to the piano, feet pushing one in front of the other on the rough dark blue carpet. I couldn’t walk too fast or too slow, otherwise I’d have looked too nervous. The air was tense as I came back around the piano. As I settled my fingers on the piano, I felt the glossiness of the white keys, but I also felt the unfamiliarity of standing while playing. Finger one on E. Finger five on C. Don’t look up. Don’t look up. There were a painstaking few seconds of silence, the air crackling, before I forced myself to press on the first note.
“O Holy Night! The stars are brightly shining…” I began to sing. Elation mixed with my nervousness. I was doing it! I hadn’t messed up! I could get through this performance!
“It is the night of the dear Savior’s birth. Long lay-” Panic seized me. What was I doing? I’d stopped playing the song, my mind going completely blank on the song I’d practiced for weeks. I stared out over the small crowd, embarrassed and ashamed. This was exactly what I’d been trying to avoid.
“Do you want to try again?” the leader asked, breaking the silence.
“S-Sure,” I responded shakily. I hastily set my fingers down again, trying to grasp onto any semblance of calm that I had.
“O Holy Night! The stars are brightly shining-” I stopped again, panic choking me, completely taking over my thoughts. I was supposed to have gotten through on at least the second try.
One last time, with eyes set on the piano, I tried again. “O Holy Night! The stars-” I froze, my eyes wide. This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening. There were so many eyes staring at me, so many people who had seen my mistake.
“Um, can I take a break?” I squeaked out awkwardly, my throat tight, my voice raw, too embarrassed to even be in the room anymore.
“Of course,” the leader responded, and then I tried my best not to bolt out of the room as I exited.
An hour later, I was sitting and sulking, away from the service, my head in my hands. Everything had fallen apart so quickly. People came and went, trying to comfort me and offering their condolences.
“It’s just that you’re a perfectionist,” someone explained.
“We’re all here for you,” another assured.
No matter what they said, though, I couldn’t shake the feeling, because I was mad at myself. In turn, I wasn’t looking for forgiveness from others, I was looking for it from myself. I was so, so mad that I’d made a fool of myself, that I’d wasted all the hard work I’d put into this song.
Of course, it was only more embarrassing to have all these people seeing me in this state, distraught and upset. I was trapped in my own head, trapped in this place. Now I knew even thinking about a performance would make me afraid that I would mess up again. I felt as if I could never perform on the piano again.
At the same time, however, I had an inkling that there was a world in which this hadn’t happened. Where I’d never been as panicked, where I’d come into this whole thing with a bit more optimism. Where I’d never even messed up.
Even though I can think about it all I want, I can’t turn back time. When things don’t go as planned, all someone can hope is that they’ll become better for the mistakes they made. That they will be stronger than they were before. At that moment, all I could hope for was that I’d stop feeling so down on myself. Now I hope that I can learn to let go of my panic, or at least to fight it, because that’s the only way to move on.
If my nervous thoughts are butterflies, I hope to learn to let every one of them fly off into the distance.
Chelorkku Shariyakum Chelorkku Shariyakilla – by Anil Koothoor
(Anil lives in Plain City, Ohio with his wife Sabitha and son Ash. He moved from Calgary to Ohio in 2021. Since then, he has been an active member of COMA. Anil is an avid traveler and has explored over 45 countries. He is passionate about local food and soccer.)
The WhatsApp message popped up on my phone around 7 PM:
“10 PM meeting. Anoop’s basement. Be there. Big plans for the dance performance for COMA-Onam.”
I groaned. A dance performance for COMA Onam? On a weeknight? At midnight? It was so typical of this group – chaotic, last-minute planners who somehow thought their best ideas came alive under the cover of darkness. Or maybe it’s just the only time they get to themselves once the chaos of household duties finally settles. Either way, this had always been our group’s hallmark: squeezing creativity out of the last moment.
Still, I reluctantly dragged myself off the sofa, threw on a T-shirt and shorts, and grabbed the car keys. Behind me, my ever-supportive, better half chimed in:
“Dance? Seriously? For you? Should I pack a first-aid kit? At least do a few stretches before attempting anything remotely resembling a dance move.”
But I wasn’t ready to give up.
“Who knows? One day I might be performing Michael Jackson’s Dangerous moves on stage!” I shot back confidently.
Her response was lightning-quick, as always.
“Just don’t be dangerous to others – they’re young and have their whole lives ahead of them.”.
I knew exactly what she was referring to – our own Mammooka and his Thuruppu Gulan antics, where stepping on people seemed part of the choreography.
As I stepped toward the door, her final jab hit home. “Let me know when you need me to call the paramedics.”
That was it. I knew there was no winning this battle. Defeated, I quietly made my way out into the dark night, hoping to preserve what little dignity I had left in me as a dancer.
The streets were eerily quiet, and the pale glow of streetlights gave everything an almost dreamlike quality. By the time I reached Anoop’s house, it was just past 10 PM.
Outside, three of our usual suspects were huddled together, deep in discussion – like a panel of experts solving world crises. I could faintly hear the names “Dhoni” and “Jadeja” being thrown around, which meant only one thing: cricket.
These guys, self-proclaimed cricket pundits, genuinely believed no one on the planet understood the game better than they did. If given a chance, they would probably fight tooth and nail – may be even to death – for the privilege of coaching their favorite teams, Chennai Super Kings and Rajasthan Royals.
One thing was certain: God truly loved the millions of true cricket fans out there. Why? Because this bunch is safely employed miles away in America, where the only “live match” they’ll ever see is the buffering wheel on their streaming app.
“Look who finally showed up,” one of them pointed at me with a mischievous grin, prompting the others to burst into laughter. “Thought you’d ditch us, man.”
“Oh yeah, I thought about it,” I shot back, “but I finally decided to come because I know you guys desperately need my choreography expertise.“
The laughter doubled, I wasn’t ready to back down – I had already lost a battle at home, and I wasn’t about to lose another within 15 minutes. I stood my ground, pretending I was the MVP of dance moves.
“At least I showed up before the start. I am sure, there’s still one more genius who hasn’t arrived yet,” I said with a funny smirk, folding my arms like I had just scored a point.
“Oh yeah, him?” one of them quipped, barely able to contain their laughter. “He probably hasn’t even left home. Let’s just hope he makes it before we finish our grand finale!”
The whole group burst out laughing. We headed down to the basement together.
The basement was lit dimly, the glow from a single bulb competing with the flickering screen of a 55” TV. But instead of the usual cricket match replays, something entirely unexpected was playing – a Malayalam news channel. The anchor’s voice filled the room, delivering updates on a high-profile harassment case involving several well-known celebrities. He was passionately dissecting the details, while the judge’s investigation report was being debated, and everyone in the room was eager like “Tell me, the whole nation wants to know”. What? I didn’t think anyone debating or watching was really interested in knowing the facts.
I paused, surprised. This group wasn’t exactly known for keeping up with current events, let alone diving into something this heavy. I half-expected someone to switch it off and put on a game as usual, but instead, everyone was engrossed.
Arguments were already in full swing. The friend sitting cross-legged on the couch with a half-empty glass in hand, was vehemently defending the celebrities, claiming the accusations were fabricated. “It’s all for money and publicity,” he spoke.
“Are you serious?” another friend shot back, leaning against the wall with a glare. “Just because they’ re famous doesn’t mean they can get away with anything.”
The room was divided. Some were passionately defending the victim, citing the courage it took to speak up. Others were quick to dismiss it, questioning motives and credibility. This has always been like this and it was no surprise to me. We never agreed on one thing. The chaos only grew louder with every passing minute, fueled by alcohol and the sheer stubbornness of the group.
Then the self-declared “leader” of the group eventually raised his voice. “Enough! We didn’t come here to solve the world’s problems. We are supposed to be planning the dance performance, remember?”
The meeting finally shifted gears – if only slightly. Someone connected their phone to the speakers, and a high energy track filled the room. But as we attempted to choreograph a routine, the arguments from earlier spilled over into the dance floor.
“Let’s start with a simple step,“ the usual backbencher suggested.
“Nothing will be simple for you,” the flag-bearer, now a frontline dancer quipped. Attempting a spin and nearly knocking over a lamp.
Everyone had their own ideas. A couple of them wanted clean, synchronized movements, and one kept improvising ridiculous hip-hop moves that made no sense with the song. Another one was too drunk to follow any rhythm. And then there was me – trying desperately to follow the beat while avoiding the disaster zones around me created by the one next to me with his wildly exaggerated arm movements. The friend who used to be a frontline dancer just got promoted to back row because his steps looked more like an interpretive reenactment of someone stepping on hot coals.
Just as we’d settled into a semblance of chaos, the basement door creaked open. In walked the usual latecomer. “Am I late?” he asked, as if he hadn’t just strolled in an hour after everyone else.
“Not at all!” the group chorused in mock unison. “We were just waiting for you to show up and save the day!”
It was the only time the entire group managed to align on anything that evening.
As usual, unfazed by the sarcasm, Mr. Late jumped straight into the routine – except he was hopelessly out of sync but definitely better than some of us in the back row. For us, every step was either too early, too late, or completely wrong.
“Back row brigade, are you guys dancing or conducting a fire drill?” the deputy leader jested.
“Hey, at least we’re consistent in making mistakes”. One of us shot back, just as someone else accidentally spun into the wall and sent a water bottle tumbling.
After an hour of trying, it was clear. Uniformity was a distant dream in our dance.
Chaos resumed in full force and the choreographer decided to take a break to discuss the next dance movements with his deputy. All joined at the bar table: as usual the group divided over their favorites – this time it was Trump vs. Kamala.
As I sat back watching the chaos unfold, I couldn’t help but be reminded of my college hostel days. Back then similar nights unfolded in my cramped dorm room. After too much drinking where the finest “bourbon” available to us was the questionable XXX Rum – we’d sit for hours passionately debating the impossible. And not just debating, we truly believed that we could prove nothing was impossible.
The topics were as absurd as they were ambitious. Someone would shout, “why can’t we intersect parallel lines? They are parallel for now! Let’s make them meet!” Then, out came the chalk, markers, paint brush swiped from hostel rooms. The walls were our canvases, but they quickly became insufficient for our visionary genius. Equations spilled onto the floor, over the edges of desks, and eventually onto the backs of assignments that were already overdue by weeks. Some formulas were so long and elaborate that they couldn’t fit on any surface, leading us to trace imaginary lines through the air as if we were choreographing a mathematical ballet. Our crowning glory was always the audacious attempts to rewrite the theory of relativity and disproving gravity.
We weren’t content with just reworking the basics of physics – hell no, that would’ve been too modest for our overinflated egos. On other nights, the mathematical equations on the walls gave way to lofty debates about the meaning of life, morality, and topics such as “free liquor for college students“. Sometimes we tried to mix up physics with philosophy. We debated hours on “If gravity is just a suggestion, what about morality? Is it relative too?” The walls, already stained with remnants of our mathematical revolutions, soon became canvases for our so-called social wisdom. Quotes like “Knowing yourself is the beginning of all wisdom – Aristotle” was common on all walls. Some other nights, when physics and philosophy felt too heavy for our overworked brains, the debates shifted to modern poetry. Of course, in true hostel spirit, these were loud, chaotic, and frequently interrupted by someone belting out the lines at full volume, shattering the midnight silence and probably waking up half the hostel.
By the end of these late night debates, the walls of my room resembled the backdrop for a conspiracy theorist. Our scribbling and performances always came to a halt when the bottles ran dry. A collective sign would sweep through the room, as if the universe itself had conspired to stop us.
…
I laughed to myself, snapping back to the present, nothing has changed. The same energy, the same chaos, the same sheer stubbornness, and the same camaraderie were alive in this basement. Except now, instead of trying to defy gravity, we were trying not to injure ourselves doing an impromptu “Balle Balle” (Sardar dance).
But just like those late-night hostel debates, nothing came of this meeting. The dance routine remained a jumbled mess of individual moves. No one agreed on anything, and eventually, we just gave up for the night, sprawling out on the couches and chairs, laughing at the absurdity of it all.
As I walked home in the early hours of the morning, I thought about the parallels. Life hadn’t changed much since those hostel days. Plans still dissolved into chaos. Arguments still ended with no clear winner. And yet, there was something comforting in the familiarity of it all.
We’d probably bomb the dance performance, just like we failed to intersect parallel lines in the hostel. But maybe that wasn’t the point. It was simply being together, sharing these ridiculous moments, and moving forward – messy, chaotic, but still moving.
Life, like that dance, would never be perfectly synchronized. And maybe that was okay. What matters is this spirit of camaraderie, the relentless optimism, and the positive attitude that brings this team together.
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