Between Ink & Intuition

I have often smiled at the clichéd phrase “generation gap”, casually tossed around between children and adults like a harmless joke. Lately, though, I’ve begun to feel its undercurrents—deep, silent, and surprisingly powerful. It’s that strange moment when you realise you are now “the generation,” and somewhere along the way, time has gently nudged you aside and marched forward without asking your permission.

It starts subtly. Your taste in music earns a polite smile. Your favourite movies are labelled “old” with a kindness that somehow hurts more than blunt honesty. Technology begins to feel less like a tool and more like a foreign language. And the moment you either can’t keep up—or choose not to—time behaves like a tidal wave. It rolls over you, leaving you floating somewhere between Gen Z, Gen Alpha, Gen Beta, and whatever alphabet comes next.

And here I am, afloat.

My son Rido is ten years old—a bright, curious, effortlessly modern child. As for me, I’ve finally settled into life with a sense of calm I didn’t always have. I’ve caught enough lemons in my lifetime, squeezed them dry, and drunk my fair share of lemonades. Today, I genuinely love the life I live. I share it with a man who has also chosen happiness—he’s a doctor, and for the sake of this story, let’s just call him The Doctor. Together, we’ve become a small, content family, stitched together with laughter, compromise, and love.

This weekend, The Doctor was away in Chennai for consultations. So it was just Rido and me—mother and son—planning an evening of bonding over dinner and a movie. Now, true to my nature (and perhaps a tad selfish), I decided this was the perfect opportunity to introduce him to culture. I confidently suggested an old devotional movie: Sree Guruvayoorappan.

Rido looked at me the way children look at adults when they’re trying very hard to be respectful while internally screaming. His expression was sympathetic. Almost apologetic. With remarkable diplomacy for a ten-year-old, he said, “Amma, maybe we can watch that later?” Then, with the same gentle firmness, he casually slipped in his actual preference: The Beast Games – Season 2.

Since bonding was the entire point of the evening, I surrendered without a fight.

And so it began.

A high-octane chase for a 500-million-dollar prize featuring the 100 strongest and 100 smartest people from around the world. Bright lights, loud commentary, adrenaline everywhere. Rido was completely hooked—eyes glued to the screen, mind racing along with the contestants. I had to physically nudge him to finish his dinner, which in itself felt like an unlocked achievement.

By 10:00 PM, Rido was fast asleep, and that’s when it hit me—I was missing my murukku companion. That role, quite exclusively, belongs to The Doctor. For those unfamiliar, murukku is our favourite little indulgence together: the age-old ritual of chewing betel leaf layered with chunnambu (hydrated lime), arecanut bites, and on rare, almost ceremonial occasions, a hint of pukala (tobacco). It’s less a habit and more a quiet togetherness—our unspoken time to talk, laugh, or simply exist in comfortable silence.

With him away, the house felt unusually still. I loitered from room to room, mildly bored and strangely aware of his absence, until restlessness nudged me toward the television. That’s when I decided to revisit Sree Guruvayoorappan—this time, all by myself.

I’ve watched this movie countless times, not for its cinematic brilliance, but for the pure devotional high it gives me. And just like always, I cried. I prayed. I felt ecstatic. My heart was full, yet sleep remained stubbornly distant.

That’s when another old companion called out to me.

Aitheehyamaala by Kottarathil Shankunni.

I lifted the heavy book and carried it to bed like a sacred object. I don’t know what it is about the past—its history, its culture—that pulls me in so completely. I can lose myself in its mysteries and glories without ever wanting to return to the present. I’ve read these stories many times before, but they’re not easy to retain in their intricate details. Still, the joy is always in rediscovering them.

Soon, I was immersed again—walking alongside Maharishi Patanjali, listening to tales of Govinda Swamikal and his sons, absorbing stories that illuminate how people once lived and thought. A society outwardly simple, yet astonishingly complex in its ideologies and philosophies. Knowledge was sacred. Wisdom was revered. Life moved slower, but thought ran deep.

Somewhere between pages, I dozed off—right around the moment Vararuchi returned to King Vikramaditya’s court, having found the answer to the king’s question: Which is the most important verse in the Ramayana?

Want to know the answer?

You’ll have to read the book.

And so ended my night—beginning with Beast Games and ending with ancient legends. Somewhere between a ten-year-old’s world and my own, I realised this: maybe the generation gap isn’t about losing time, but about learning to live gracefully across many timelines at once.