I stood outside Cyber Prism, the computer institute in Ernakulam where my cousin Ranjith Varma—Kunjumon to us—taught, my palms clammy and my shy nature choking my words. Two years my elder, Kunjumon was the bold one, while I was the cousin who overthought every sentence. I’d come to ask about job openings in the software industry, but the thought of bringing it up felt like scaling a cliff. What if he thought I was desperate? What if there were no leads? My mind churned as I stepped inside, the hum of computers and clicking keyboards buzzing around me.
Kunjumon spotted me instantly, his face breaking into a grin like I was the guest of honor. “Look who’s here!” he boomed, striding over with his signature swagger. Before I could summon the courage to mention jobs, he was introducing me to his student, the brother of Lalu Alex, the actor. “This guy’s brother is famous!” he said, beaming as if he’d handed me a backstage pass to a movie set. I nodded, my shyness tying my tongue, but Kunjumon was in his element, proud as ever. I wanted to ask about software firms, but the words stayed stuck.
Then came the inevitable. “Let’s celebrate!” Kunjumon declared, eyes twinkling with mischief. “There’s a bar nearby.” My nerves screamed for a pint, and his enthusiasm was contagious, so off we went, trading the institute’s fluorescent lights for the dim glow of a local bar. Kunjumon insisted on paying—“My treat!”—and ordered beers with the speed of a man on a mission. I sipped mine cautiously, still rehearsing my job question, but Kunjumon had grander plans. “You know,” he said, leaning in with a conspiratorial grin, “I could get you into movies. Lalu Alex’s brother? I’ll talk to him. You’ve got… something.” He squinted, then roared with laughter. “Okay, maybe the camera won’t love your face, but we’ll fix that!”
I laughed, the beer loosening me up, and in a rare burst of boldness, I challenged him to a drinking contest. “Let’s see who can down a pint!” I said, feeling briefly invincible. Kunjumon’s eyes lit up, and we clinked glasses, gulping like we were in a goofy college flick. The night blurred with his stories—of teaching, his students, and his wild plan to make me a star. I thought I was keeping up, pint for pint, but when the bill arrived, reality hit: Kunjumon had downed twice as many beers as me, his empty glasses outnumbering mine like an army. “Lightweight,” he teased, slapping my back as he paid with a flourish, unfazed by the dent in his wallet or the toll on his liver.
That wasn’t the only time Kunjumon’s zest for life—and alcohol—swept me along. Another memory takes me to a chaotic Bangalore trip with Kunjumon and our cousin Kishore. We piled into my 14-year-old Maruti Esteem, rattling off from Manjeri with high spirits and zero foresight. Halfway there, the car coughed and died—engine failure, the mechanical equivalent of a diva storming offstage. We dragged it to three Maruti dealers—two in Bangalore, one in Mysore—and not one could figure out why it quit. I was a wreck, picturing my car stranded forever, but Kunjumon and Kishore? They treated it like a grand adventure, laughing like kids on a field trip.
While I obsessed over the car, they discovered Bangalore’s happy hour scene—buy one beer, get one free. They dove in, racking up free beers like they were collecting trophies. Kunjumon, with his unquenchable thirst, led the charge, his laughter bouncing through the pubs. “Free beer doesn’t count as drinking!” he’d joke, raising another glass. Kishore and I, clueless about how dire his condition was, got caught up in his energy, matching his drinks and egging him on. His witty one-liners—half-slurred, half-genius—kept us in stitches. For three days, we hopped pubs, belted bad karaoke, and ignored the ticking clock of his health. My only worry was getting the car back to Manjeri, not the fact that we were enabling a habit that was killing him.
Those moments—the bar in Ernakulam, the Bangalore misadventure—were pure Kunjumon: larger than life, funny as hell, and drowning in alcohol. Back in our school days in Kannur, he, Kishore, and I were thick as thieves, sharing dreams and laughs. But after he started working at Cyber Prism, living in Tripunithura and teaching in Ernakulam, alcohol stole him away. For 25 to 30 years, I have no memory of a sober conversation, his drinking a wall between us. We only reconnected when his liver began failing, and doctors banned alcohol. By then, he was vomiting blood, a brutal sign of the end. He cut back but couldn’t quit, and he refused a liver transplant—partly, I think, because he distrusted a doctor he felt was after money, and partly because he’d accepted a life without alcohol wasn’t one he wanted.
Kunjumon’s laughter still echoes, but it’s bittersweet. He left behind his wife and two daughters, 17 and 21, whose voices, renowned in our community, carry his spirit in every note. His story isn’t just ours—it’s a warning. In Kerala, alcohol is a menace ripping families apart. Four of my 23 school classmates are caught in its grip, their lives fraying like Kunjumon’s. Those nights of free beers and movie-star dreams were fun, but they masked a tragedy that cost us Kunjumon and left his daughters without a father. His memory urges us to fight this demon before it claims more.
