The Coconut Doesn’t Fall Far

Arjun Menon took great pride in the fact that he had never departed from Thrissur.

 His ideal day would begin with a cup of chai from Babu Chettan's stand, finish with a group of friends gathering on the temple grounds, and be filled with nonstop replays of Kilukkam.  However, at the age of 24, he began to feel pressure from all corners, including his uncles, Appa, and Amma, as well as an ambitious neighbour who had a chart of upcoming competitive tests taped to his wall.

 Therefore, Arjun accepted a position with a Bengaluru-based IT startup.

 He did so not out of his own volition but because he had been taught, "You'll never grow if you stay rooted like a coconut tree."

 A Farewell
 He packed his things: clothing he didn’t iron, a pressure cooker his Amma insisted on, and three jars of handmade banana chips.  He rode the rails to Bengaluru, picturing a massive IT temple where the locals talked code, drank iced coffee, and moved at a breakneck pace.

 The reality became apparent very quickly.

 It was chaotic, chaotic, and bewildering in Bengaluru.  The buses failed to make their scheduled stops.  People ordered food by scanning QR codes, and everyone was in a rush, even when doing nothing.

 His housemates were pleasant yet weird.  One was on a keto diet and begged Arjun to stop frying fish in the flat.  The other insisted on "morning affirmations" and posted slogans like “Be a Shark, Not a Shrimp” on the fridge.

 Work was terrible.

 His employer stated something like,

 “We don’t solve problems, we disrupt paradigms.”
 Arjun didn’t know what that meant, so he merely nodded and opened Excel.

 He missed home.  He missed his mother’s rasam.  He missed the way the rain fell in Thrissur – slant, playfully, like it was taunting you.  In Bengaluru, the rain was impatient.  It collapsed, swamped, and left like an auto driver during rush hour.

 The Crisis
 One evening, during a customer call, Arjun was requested to explain a data report he hadn’t produced.  He froze.  The Wi-Fi faltered.  His screen froze with his mouth gaping like a confused frog.

 He stopped the conversation, stepped to the balcony, and phoned his father.

 “I don’t belong here, Appa.  I feel like a jackfruit at a salad bar.”

 His father laughed for a long time before replying,

 “Da, even jackfruit becomes biriyani somewhere else.  Don’t give up.  Stay.  Learn.  Then come back.”

 Arjun remained.  Not out of courage, but because he didn’t know what else to do.

 So he learnt.

 He found out how to manage Bengaluru’s tumult.  He started making good meals.  He even taught his roommate to make puttu.  At work, he began speaking up — quietly, but with clarity.

 Slowly, the city stopped feeling like a strange planet and began to feel like a temporary second home.

The Return
 Two years later, Arjun returned to Thrissur for good, not because he failed, but because he wanted to come back.

 He’d saved money, developed skills, and most significantly, learned how to stand on his own.  He wasn’t terrified of new cities anymore.  He was just now ready to carry what he’d learned home.

 Back in Thrissur, he began a modest digital marketing agency – in a leased room above a sweet shop.  He educated local companies on how to flourish online.  His old pals dubbed him “CEO chettan” half-mockingly, but they meant it with affection.

 Every evening, he still sipped chai from Babu Chettan’s booth.  But now, he pays using UPI.