I'm the kind of person most people walk past without a second glance—and, honestly, I prefer it that way. My name is Manikandan, though everyone calls me Mani. It might sound old-fashioned now, but back in the '90s it was a name you heard often. If you're from Tamil Nadu, chances are there's at least one Mani in your circle.
You've probably guessed by now that I'm a '90s kid—and you'd be right. Born in 1997, in Thanjavur, a town steeped in history and culture. It's the land of the Cholas, known not only for its grandeur but also for its bobblehead dolls that nod endlessly with the breeze. But the crown jewel of this ancient land is the Brihadeeshwar Temple—our "Big Temple." Built in the 11th century by Raja Raja Chola, it's now a UNESCO World Heritage site. Even today, it towers above us, its shadow stretching across centuries, a living testament to human genius. I have no doubt it will endure another thousand years, still awing those who stand before it.
My village lies twenty-three kilometers from Thanjavur, tucked quietly into this storied landscape.
The road to Orathanadu runs through endless fields, where paddy shimmers like sheets of glass under the sun. Coconut palms line the canals, their reflections breaking in ripples as the water flows toward the crops. Orathanadu isn't a place of monuments or crowds. It's a place of rhythm—the slow scrape of a farmer's sickle, the laughter of children running barefoot, the call of birds rising over green acres.
My father, Muthusamy, is a farmer. Not the kind you'd imagine from films—no unkempt dhoti, no green turban, no frail frame. He is of average build, always immaculate in his white shirt and white dhoti, not a wrinkle out of place. A landowner whose pride and burden are the same: acres of soil that have fed our family for generations. His roots cling to that land as firmly as the paddy he grows.
My mother, Kalyani, is the quiet strength of our home. As the wife of a landowner, she carries herself with grace, but her hands are never idle. The clang of vessels, the aroma of boiling rice, and the soft hum of an Illayaraja tune often announce her presence. Yet when the fields call, she is there too—her saree tucked at the waist, her feet sinking into wet earth beside my father.
Family was never just the four of us. On my father's side, there was his elder sister Meenakshi and younger brother Ranganathan. On my mother's side, four elder brothers who once treated her like a princess. And at home, my siblings—Revathi and Aravind—completed the circle.
This story begins when I was fifteen, in 10th grade. The public exams were only a month away.
One evening, I came home at 8 PM after a long day of cricket and gossip with friends. My hands were still dusty, and the sound of the ball striking the bat seemed to echo in my ears.
The moment I stepped in, I found my mother waiting. Her face was tight with anger, her voice sharp enough to cut through the hum of the ceiling fan.
"Mani! Do you know what time it is? You said you'd be back by six!"
I lowered my head, still catching my breath. "Just two more hours, Mom... I couldn't leave in the middle of the game."
Her eyes flashed. "Two more hours? Every day it's the same story. Books don't matter to you at all, do they?"
Before I could answer, my father turned off the TV and spoke, his voice calm, almost indulgent.
"Let him play, Kalyani. He's a boy. This is the time to run, to sweat, to laugh with friends. Responsibility will come soon enough. Even if his grades aren't high, it's fine. He'll inherit the land and take care of it."
Mom shook her head, muttering, "You're the one spoiling him," before disappearing into the kitchen.
Dad smiled faintly and returned to the TV, as if nothing had happened.
For the next two months, until exams were over, I tried—at least on most days—to come home by 7 PM and study.
By April, the exams ended. The last bell still echoed in my head as I walked out of the hall, my shoulders light, the weight of textbooks finally lifted.
The very next morning, I was back on the ground by 6 AM. Days blurred into a rhythm of cricket, sweat, and sun. I came home only for breakfast and lunch, then ran back again.
Mom scolded me often, saying, "You don't waste a single ray of sunlight." And she was right.
Somewhere in that blur, my results arrived. I had scored 72%. Not spectacular, but good enough. Mom and Dad were pleased, and I was simply relieved. More than anything, I was excited—because I was stepping into 11th grade with my friends. A new chapter was waiting, though I didn't yet know how much it would change me.