From Palakkadinte Makal to Thrissurinte Marumakal: A Journey Etched in Smile and Silence.

I was born with the scent of sambhraanis and sambhar in my veins, my lullabies soaked in Palakkadan Tamil and Malayalam, and my childhood days echoing with the rhythm of the swaying karimpana on summer afternoons. I was Palakkadinte Makal — the beloved daughter of a land where temples stood tall with silence, where matta ari (red rice) was more than just rice — it was an emotion.

My days began with Amma's strong filter coffee and ended under the soft glow of the nilavilakku . Every corner of my Achan’s ancestral home whispered stories of generations. There was pride in our traditions, simplicity in our thorans and mulakushyam, and warmth in the lap of my Amooma.

I was Palakkadinte Makal — the cherished daughter of a slow, grounded town, where the days moved like poetry. My world was woven with soft silk sarees aired in the courtyard, the smell of coconut oil in my hair, and the way Acha would call me "kuttiye" with a love no word can translate. Every wall of that home in Palakkad knew me — my moods, my tears, my dreams, and even the secret conversations I had with the moon through the barred windows at night.

But then came the rituals of change — the tying of a thaali, the change of surname, the bittersweet farewell with trembling hands and eyes that refused to meet. I left with jasmine flowers in my hair, nervous bangles on my wrists, and a heart full of unspoken goodbyes. I walked out of my home not just with suitcases but with the weight of becoming someone else. Then life, as it always does, asked me to pack those memories gently and shift base — not just my clothes and books, but my very identity. I stepped into Thrissur as a new bride — now Thrissurinte Marumakal — the daughter-in-law of a city that danced to the rhythm of chenda melam and sparkled during Thrissur Pooram like a bride herself.

I entered Thrissur — not as Karthika, the carefree girl from Palakkad, but as someone’s Marumakal. A word so loaded. A role so unknown. A city so alive, loud, and flamboyant — so unlike my quiet Palakkad. The very soil beneath my feet felt unfamiliar, like I was walking barefoot across a stage I hadn’t rehearsed for.

In Palakkad, I belonged. In Thrissur, I observed.

In Palakkad, I was hugged. In Thrissur, I was watched.

In Palakkad, I laughed freely. In Thrissur, I measured my smile.

At first, it was overwhelming. The language, though Malayalam, was louder, more flamboyant — with a peppering of humor, wit, and undeniable confidence. In Palakkad, our expressions were measured, almost poetic. In Thrissur, conversations galloped like elephants in procession — grand and uninhibited .And in the centre of this grand rhythm stood And in the centre of this grand rhythm stood Vadakkunnathan Temple — calm, eternal, and unmoved by the chaos around it. I was no longer the pampered daughter. I was now the "penkutty" who had to understand everyone else before being understood. I fumbled with their idioms, their food timings, their spice levels, their rituals. But slowly, in the nooks of this vibrant town, I started finding home again.The first few months were hard. I missed home in the taste of curry, in the space between words, in the silence after dinner. I smiled through it all, not wanting to be the "penkutty" who struggled. But my soul ached. Every morning, I would hold my tears like hot tea in trembling hands — careful not to spill them in front of anyone.

But slowly, without my permission, change arrived.I learned to cook with a little more "piriyanmulaku." I began to enjoy the kuthikaachiya parippu curry  and beef fry that tasted like fire and love . It came in the form of a moru curry that tasted like amma's . In my loving and supportive husband who is not jus a partner but a quiet strength that holds me when the world cant . In the friendship of a brother who became my partner in crime. In the smile of a co-sister who saw the tiredness behind my brave eyes. In the way my mother-in-law, without a word, left an extra spoon of avial on my plate. In the form of a strict yet loving father-in-law ,a man of unpausing tales, yet his quiet care speaks volumes . It came in the chenda melam of Thrissur Pooram and that shook something inside me. It came when someone called me not marumakal, but mol. I learned the art of pulling off a kasavu saree with the flair of a true Thrissurkaari. I found joy in the endless laughter that echoed during Onam sadya preparations and discovered strength in the women of Thrissur who multitasked without blinking an eye. Every time I stood before the majestic gopurams of Vadakkunnathan, I felt like the temple understood my silence — the same way Amma once did. And slowly, standing under its ancient banyan trees, watching the oil lamps flicker in its inner sanctum, I began to find parts of myself I thought I had left behind in Palakkad.

One day, I looked into the mirror and saw a woman who now wore Thrissur in her walk — a little more confident, a little more graceful. I had become part of this home, this family, this city — not because I erased myself, but because I blended in without losing who I was.

Now, I can switch between Palakkadan calm and Thrissur fire, just like that. I can make beef fry and sambhar with the same love. I’ve learned that being a marumakal doesn’t mean forgetting how to be a makal. It means carrying both roles in the quiet dignity that only women truly understand..The girl who once spent her evenings on the silent corners of her home now shops at the bustling streets of Swaraj Round with a smile. The transition wasn't just geographical — it was emotional, cultural, and spiritual. I didn’t lose myself.

Today, when I look into the mirror, I see both — Palakkadinte makal in my soft eyes and Thrissurinte marumakal in my confident smile. I carry my past and present like twin anklets on my feet — one echoes nostalgia, the other, celebration. And I’ve come to realize — being a daughter and a daughter-in-law isn’t a shift in roles; it’s a weaving of identities. And somewhere between sambhar rice  and beef fry, between Kalpathy Ratholsavam and Thrissur Pooram, I’ve become a bridge — connecting two proud cultures, two different flavors of love.

And even today, when I go to Palakkad and hear my Amma call me makale, my heart swells with that ache only daughters know — an ache that says, “You may live somewhere else now, but this is where your roots will always breathe.”

I am Palakkadinte Makal. I am Thrissurinte Marumakal. And somewhere in between, I found me.

I am no longer either-or.

I am both.