Short story: “26E at 30,000 Feet”

(This was featured in The Jam Fruit Tree Anthology of Best Short Stories 2026)

It’s 2019. My family’s one-month-long Australian trip is almost over.

We are at Melbourne International Airport.
Everything is done.
Check-in done.
Security done.
Waiting… done.

Only the low airport hum remains-
trolley wheels rattling, suitcases rolling,
announcements echoing names nobody really listens to.

All that’s left is a simple boarding call.

I am not expecting life to add a post-credit scene.

Then the announcement comes:

Passengers travelling to Colombo on UL 605, please proceed to Gate Number 4.

I stand up with my family, completely unaware that Gate 4 is about to open something else-
a chapter I think has been permanently closed. 

My wife and my mother-in-law walk ahead.
My 8-year-old son and I follow a few metres behind.

As we enter the aircraft through the jet bridge-
that narrow tunnel smelling faintly of metal, cold air-conditioning, and someone else’s perfume-

I see her.

A Sri Lankan Airlines air hostess stands at the door.

Clad in that beautiful aqua-colored saree,
hands folded in the familiar Ayubowan gesture,
welcoming passengers with a smile trained to perfection.

I smile back.

And then… something feels wrong.

Not bad wrong.
Familiar wrong.

I look at her again.

I rub my eyes-not because I am emotional, but because I want to be sure my mind isn’t playing tricks at Melbourne Airport.

She looks at me too.

There is a pause.

Not long.

But long enough for my heartbeat to become loud in my ears.

The kind of pause where two people silently ask the same question:
Is it really you?

I lower my eyes.

I look at her name badge.

It reads: SAMADHI.

And just like that, the past stands in front of me-wearing wings.

Looking back now,
I realise this wasn’t a shock.
It was familiarity refusing to age.

She suddenly shouts,
“Hey Yash! It’s you!”

I shout back,
“Hey Samadhi! It’s you!”

All of this happens in a few seconds.

Behind me-a growing queue, shifting impatiently.
In front of me-my son blinking… puzzled…looking at me… then at her… then back at me.

In the middle of all this silence, his voice cuts through-clear, innocent, loud enough for the universe to hear:

“Dad… do you know this airhostess aunty?”

This is not a philosophical moment.

This is a survival question.

Later, I would realise
that children don’t complicate life —
they simplify it with one honest question.

I give a quick, very confident:
“Yes.”

Only then does Samadhi realise a line has formed.

Professional mode switches on immediately.

“Get in… get in… what’s your seat number?”

I whisper, almost chanting,
“26E… 26E… 26E…”

And I fumble into the aircraft.

To be frank-
I start flying before the pilot takes off.

I settle into my seat with my family.

And within minutes… she appears again.

Same smile.
Same calm.

I introduce her to my family as my good friend.

There is no other option.
I have to commit to that sentence.

She asks what we would like to drink.

My entire digestive system has gone dry-
not due to dehydration, but due to unexpected happiness.

So I order a chilled apple juice. Others order the juices of their choice.

When I get the apple juice, I feel the cold of the glass in my hand,
and the first sip-sweet, sharp, grounding-like my body reminding me to breathe.

Then she calls the crew members in charge of our area and says,
“This is my best friend Yash, travelling with his family.
Please treat them the best possible way.”

And just like that, she rushes back to duty.

The flight takes off.

At 30,000 feet, she comes back to my seat.

My family is snoring away-the soft white noise of the cabin wrapping the moment,
engines humming steadily, as if the world has agreed to give us privacy.

We speak.

About old days.
Old colleagues.
Old memories.

She has been with SriLankan Airlines for thirteen years.
A senior position.
A completely different life.

And yet… the familiarity is untouched.

It was only later that I understood this.
I wasn’t meeting her again.
I was meeting the version of myself that once existed beside her.

She feeds us everything possible-
special desserts,
cashew nuts,
sandwiches,
juices.

At one point, I am genuinely unsure whether I am sitting in Economy Class
or emotionally upgraded to First Class.

It is a nine-hour flight.

Every time she crosses our seat, she brings something.

Delicious food…
or nostalgia-soaked memory.

I ask for a photo to freeze the moment.

She agrees, on one condition:
“No social media.”

And somehow, that makes the moment even more precious.

That Melbourne trip ended with a surprise I would never have dreamed of.

I didn’t meet my old girlfriend to restart anything.

I met her to realise something far more important.

Some people don’t come back into our lives to stay.

They come back once-
at Gate 4,
Seat 26E,
30,000 feet above ground-

just to remind us how far we have flown since we last knew them.

Some chapters don’t need a sequel.

They just need a graceful landing.

ULLOZHUKKU: A Quiet Reminder That Malayalis Are Masters of Storytelling

I am a great fan of Malayalam cinema. They seldom disappoint you.

I have watched almost all the Malayalam movies available on Netflix. Every film has been overwhelmingly satisfying. That’s why I always check whether a new Malayalam movie has been added to Netflix.

Recently, I noticed a movie called Ullozhukku.

I started watching it—but stopped after five minutes. It felt dull. Slow. Almost lifeless.
Then I received a message from my relative:
“This movie is very good. It’s more than a movie—it’s real life unfolding in front of you.”

That message made me go back.

This note is written after watching the full movie.

Ullozhukku carries all the hallmark features of good Malayalam cinema:
simple characters, but deeply natural acting;
a story that never stagnates, but keeps moving;
and twists that quietly flip the narrative upside down.

Coincidentally, I was reading a book called Story Smart, which looks at storytelling from a scientific perspective—how stories affect our brains, why certain narrative elements hit us harder than others, and how small revelations can completely alter our perception. Watching Ullozhukku while reading this book was an experience in itself.

This is a mature film, and watching it with children may feel uncomfortable.

At its core, the story is simple.

A boy and a girl in a village love each other. Suddenly, the girl’s family forces her into an arranged marriage—with a feeble, sickly, visibly unwell man. She is young, smart, and beautiful. The mismatch is painful to watch. Yet, the marriage happens.

There is no intimacy. Soon, the husband’s health deteriorates further. Hospitals become routine. The woman-Anju-ends up caring for him constantly, suppressing her own emotions, desires, and loneliness.

Deprived of affection, she eventually reaches out to her former lover, Rajeev. One day, she gives in to her feelings. She becomes pregnant. Shortly after, the husband Thomaskutty dies.

After the funeral, Anju decides to leave and live with Rajeev. She reveals everything—to her husband’s mother, Leelamma.

From this moment, the film transforms.

Leelamma explodes in anger.
“Don’t call me Amma,” she tells Anju.

From then on, Anju is treated differently. Coldly. Cruelly.
Her own parents find out. Her father slaps her.

She is broken.

Then comes a single line—from a seemingly insignificant character.

Leelamma’s sister, a nun from the village church, says during an argument:
“We got Thomaskutty married knowing everything.”

That sentence changes everything.

Anju begins to question: Knowing everything?
She digs deeper and discovers the truth—her husband had a brain tumour. He had undergone treatment before the marriage. Leelamma knew. She hid the medical records, believing the tumour was “removed” and there would be no issue.

This revelation is the soul of the film.

From this point, Anju changes.
Her posture. Her voice. Her resolve.

She becomes strong.

Her father, who once slapped her, softens.
Leelamma, who rejected her, begins to defend her.

Watching how one hidden truth reshapes every character’s behaviour was phenomenal. This isn’t just cinema—this is life. How often do we judge without knowing the full story?

I won’t reveal more. This is a film that deserves to be watched, not summarized.

The climax has a beautiful twist. I loved the ending.

I cried.

Not dramatic tears—but silent ones, rolling down my cheeks.

I watch films closely—expressions, silences, micro-movements.

Urvashi as Leelamma-what an actress. No drama. No exaggeration. She lives Leelamma.

Parvathy as Anju—wow. Every step, every pause, every word is perfectly measured.

I finished the movie overwhelmed—by the storytelling, by the performances, by the honesty.

Cinema, at its core, is about story and how you tell it.

Not about:

• 200-crore actors
  
  

• 1000-crore box office numbers
  
  

• multi-crore audio launch spectacles
  
  

• actors delivering hate-filled speeches against imagined enemies
  
  

• pan-India fantasies
  
  

• flying across the world to shoot a 3-minute song
  
  

• importing North Indian actors for “market reach”
  
  

• 70-plus-year-old stars playing age-inappropriate roles
  
  

• stale, rotten punch dialogues
  
  

• lazy binaries—either hate Brahmins or glorify Dalits
  
  

I can go on.

Tamil cinema today is deeply infested with all of this.

I honestly doubt whether it will recover anytime soon. And by the time it does—if it ever does—I wonder how far Malayalam cinema would have climbed.

One thing is certain.

Malayalam cinema will continue to stand on story and characters.

Tamil cinema, on the other hand, seems content lying at the feet of 80-year-old men, still calling them Thalaivar, Thala, or Thalapathy.

And that-for me-is the real tragedy.

Myself-Icebreaker Speech at FTZ Toastmasters Club by P Yasovarman on 11.02.2016

There is no WAR in my name, but there is a MAN in my name.

That is how I snap at the people who misspell my name.

Fellow Toastmasters and guests!

I am Yasovarman, Yasovarman Perinpanayagam, spelled as Y A S O V A R M A N.

I am fondly called as Yash by many as they find it difficult to pronounce my name, but my mother was never happy about it!

My life can be divided into 5 different phases. Each phase in a different place.

36 years ago I was born in a small farming village called Mandur in the eastern province of Sri Lanka.

I spent the initial years in the village. Then my parents decided to move to Batticaloa town to get us better education.

My next phase of life started in Batticaloa. I joined Methodist Central College which is probably the oldest school in the island. It was established in the early years of the 19^th century by the Methodist mission priests.

After getting through Advanced Level I decided to move to our neighboring country India for my higher studies. I joined a private college in Chennai for BSc Microbiology which is a study of creatures you don’t see by your naked eye.

Chennai life gave me a lot of new experiences. I started communicating in English as there were students from various states. I had an opportunity to interact with girls and to make some good friends which I was deprived of back home as I studied at a boys’ school and could not hang around the 2 most famous girls’ schools-my elder sister was a student of one and my mother was the vice principal of the other. Therefore I had to get back home immediately after school without any choice…

My 4^th phase of life was back in Sri Lanka in Colombo. I joined a private company that was handling textile chemicals. The change of field from microbiology to textile was an accident indeed. There is a saying that everything happens for a reason. In that accident hidden another accident. Yes.. your guess is perfect. I met my future wife there. I emerged unhurt.

Since I am a village boy I had been longing for a village life. Out of the blue I saw an advertisement calling for applicants to work in an apparel factory in Kilinochchi. I applied in no time. I got through the interviews and relocated to Kilinochchi leaving my family in Colombo.

Three 3 years I spent in the north gave me a lot of exposure to a different side of Lanka and its people who were badly affected by the bloody war. It gave me an opportunity to help those people mentally and improve their knowledge on various aspects.

My PSEUDO-BACHELOR life in Kilinochchi gave me a lot of spare time which was very much utilized to explore book reading, internet, music and novel subjects such as mnemonics and memory techniques.

“If there is a beginning there is an end”. I decided to come back to rejoin my family because my son was starting schooling. I missed him so much during these 3 years. Meantime I miss my people in Kilinochchi a lot.

My Kilinochchi life ended last year. “If there is an end there is a beginning”. This is the new beginning-joining this elite Toastmasters club.