The First Step of a Long Journey
Joseph V Mykulangara 01-December-2025
The morning opened softly — pale light settling over the rooftops, the smell of damp leaves rising from last night’s rain. I stepped out for my usual walk with a quiet excitement inside me, the kind that appears when a long-kept secret finally decides to speak. Some mornings don’t just begin — they reveal something.
Ravi was already waiting at the junction leading to the chira — the little waterbody that greets morning walkers with its calm surface and shy water lilies. He was stretching in his usual energetic style, looking every bit the athlete he is.
“Namaskaram!” he called out.
“You look different today… something brewing?”
I smiled. “Hmm… yes. Time to say it aloud. My book is almost ready.” Even as I said it, I felt a small flutter inside — the emotion of admitting a dream to the world.
Just then, Samkutty joined us — our unofficial literary philosopher and loyal Dostoevsky admirer. For him, even a simple morning walk somehow links back to Crime and Punishment or The Brothers Karamazov. He adjusted his glasses, already curious
“If Samkutty finds his soul in Dostoevsky,” I smiled, “I find mine in Turgenev — in the quiet reflections of A Sportsman’s Sketches and the Gentle Tensions of Fathers and Sons.”
Where he looks for storms of the mind, I look for the moods that settle after them. Between his intensity and my quietness, our conversations always find their own rhythm.
“Really? You never told us properly! What kind of book is this?” he asked, falling into step with us. We began walking — three shadows settling into an easy rhythm — as the road slowly woke around us. A rooster crowed. A scooter sputtered to life. The village was stretching, waking, breathing. There’s a strange comfort in mornings — they make big conversations feel gentle.
“It’s a journey,” I said. “From Mumbai to Texas… and then across other parts of the United States. From childhood memories to migrations. From the old ponds of Kadamattam to the wide highways of San Marcos. It’s about how places shape us… and how we carry them long after we leave.”
I noticed how saying these words made the journey feel real again — as if I was walking through the memories once more.
A friend of mine — an English language professor who read the manuscript — told me it isn’t just a travelogue or a memoir. He called it a Novelogue — a blend of a novel’s storytelling and a travelogue’s movement. I didn’t plan it that way… but perhaps that’s exactly what it has become. Sometimes stories find their own shape before we name them.
Anil jogged in a minute later, slightly breathless as always. “So you’re finally becoming an author?” he grinned.
“Nothing like that… author onnum alla,” I laughed.
“I’m just trying to write a few chapters of human life. I’m only one character in a much larger story — listening to the layers beneath our days, the voices that travel with us.”
I never planned to write this book — it happened to me, quietly, like a story that insisted on being told. Writing this book is my way of understanding how all the places and people in my life have quietly shaped me.
That is the truth — this book feels less like something I wrote and more like something that slowly unfolded. For a moment, all four of us walked in silence — the comfortable silence only old friends share. Sunlight caught the dust in the air and turned it golden. Inside that silence, I felt a quiet gratitude: for the journey, the memories, and the people who unknowingly shaped this book.
Ravi finally broke the pause.
“Okay… when is it releasing?”
“Soon,” I said. “My publishing team and I are in the final polishing stage — making sure readers feel what I felt, see what I saw.” More than publishing, I want the book to hold the honesty of the life that made it.
Samkutty nodded slowly, thoughtful as ever. “Write it in your own voice,” he said. “Simple, honest… like our walk-talks. That’s what will stay.
” I knew he was right. This book was never meant to be a performance. It was meant to be a companion — like these morning walks. After our third round around the chira, Anil said, “When it comes out, keep a copy for me. Signed, okay?”
A small warmth rose in my chest — the warmth that tells you a journey has truly begun. Sometimes the support of one friend is enough to carry a dream forward.
We ended at the new tea shop near the corner. Ravi insisted we try the fresh filter coffee, and as always, he was right — hot, rich, perfect. Morning conversations taste different when flavoured with hope.
So today, I begin this blog. Not just to share the progress of my book, but also these small Kerala mornings that shape it — the walks, the friendships, the quiet moments that remind me why stories matter.
Sometimes the first step of a long journey is simply saying, “Yes… I’m writing a book.” And sometimes, that one sentence is enough to change the direction of an entire life.
