Menon and his wife Natalia outside the gate of their home in Ernakulam, Kerala.
Credit: Special arrangement
Dr UPR Menon and Pushkar V
(As told to Pushkar V.)
On the night of February 23, 2022, I was sitting at a McDonald’s, sipping coffee. Outside, everything was normal. The streets of Kyiv were alive with people carrying grocery bags and walking their pets. Cars were zooming by. Friends sitting with me rubbished the rumours that Kyiv would be attacked by the Russians.
For months we had heard warnings from the US and Europe about a Russian invasion, but honestly, we didn’t believe a thing. I told myself it was just politics, with news anchors sensationalising things, and nothing more.
But the next morning I woke up to the sounds of bombing.
It was 4.30 am. As the windows rattled, the air suddenly felt heavy. Within minutes my family and I rushed to the underground parking of our building for shelter. When we ventured out later, the streets were starkly different. They were now occupied by soldiers, tanks and barricades. People were running for cover. Shops were emptying out. That was the day war truly entered our lives.
For the first time, I understood what it meant to have one’s homeland under attack. For a man born in Kerala and raised in the midst of swaying coconut palms, calm streams and monsoon-fed rice fields, this was truly dystopian. I had only read about war in newspapers and watched it in films. But I was now right in the middle of one.
And even now, the nightmare continues. Just recently, Russian missiles and drones struck the centre of Kyiv, killing civilians and damaging a government building. It was a brutal reminder that the war is not behind us.
Journey to Ukraine
It was 1980 when I first set foot in Ukraine. I was just 19, a boy from Ernakulam, Kerala, with a bachelor’s degree from Union Christian College. I had secured a scholarship to study in the USSR. Back then, it was a Soviet republic.
I spent the first year in Vinnytsia, studying Russian. It was far from easy. Learning a completely new language was a challenge. I still remember those cold evenings. I would sit by my hostel window, watching the cold streets outside and wondering if I had made the wrong decision. But slowly, the language became easier, I made new friends and the strange new country started to feel less strange. After that, I moved to Odesa for six years of medical studies.
Menon with his friends and family in Ukraine.
Odesa was something else. Located on the shores of the Black Sea, it has a big port and beautiful beaches. The climate was milder than in Moscow and Leningrad, and the cityscape was a charming mix of Europe and Soviet sensibilities. For Indian students, Odesa became a second home. I was the first Indian scholar from Odesa Medical Institute, which later became a university.
Trauma tech
I specialised in orthopedics and traumatology. The USSR was advanced in this area at that time, especially with the Ilizarov technique for trauma care. The Ilizarov apparatus is used to treat complex bone fractures, deformities and limb length discrepancies. The decision to study it shaped my whole life. After my studies, I returned briefly to Kochi, did my house surgeoncy, and worked at the Ernakulam Medical Centre. My parents were happy to see me back but destiny had other plans.
Love and family
In my final year in Odesa, I met Natalia. She was then studying at the Odesa Engineering College. We got married in 1987. Back then in Kerala, such marriages were rare. Marrying a foreigner, that too from Ukraine, was unheard of. But my parents trusted me and supported my decision. Looking back, I feel grateful for that.
After some years in India, we returned to Moscow and finally moved back to Ukraine in 1996, settling in Kyiv. By then, Ukraine was an independent country, trying to build itself after the collapse of the Soviet Union. There was unrest and confusion, but also opportunity. People were tired of the party secretaries who lived in luxury while common citizens struggled. Slowly, private enterprises and foreign investments started coming in. Natalia worked at a furniture company and our son, Rajiv, grew up in Kyiv before moving to the US, where he now lives with his wife in Boston.
Shifting ground
Even after gaining independence, Ukraine never really got to breathe freely. Russia’s influence was everywhere — in its politics, economics and language. The Ukrainian language was neglected. People could see how Poland, Romania and Germany were progressing as part of the European Union, and naturally, they wanted a future on those lines. But Ukrainian leaders kept leaning towards Moscow.
In 2014, the tension exploded in the Revolution of Dignity, also known as Maidan revolution. I remember the protests. The crowds that thronged the central square demanded a new constitution and government. Eventually, the pro-Russian leaders fled. But Russia didn’t sit quiet. They annexed Crimea and fuelled unrest in Donbass. From that year, the animosity between the two neighbours got worse.
But daily life continued. People went to work, children attended school, football matches were played in the evenings, and weddings, birthdays and festivals were celebrated. Kyiv was vibrant. Back then, I was working with the Ministry of Health and the Indian Pharmaceutical Manufacturers Association (IPMA). At IPMA, I continue to represent Indian pharma companies — they supply a lot of medicine to Ukraine, especially for oncology, HIV and TB. I sit on decision-making committees and promote Indian healthcare. It is meaningful work and I feel I am building a bridge between India and Ukraine.
Resistance scenes
Then came that February morning in 2022. Bombs, shelters, fear. Suddenly, everything I had built in Ukraine felt fragile. We had to find a way to survive. The first few weeks were chaotic. Food was scarce as people hoarded whatever they could get their hands on. Martial law was declared. The Russian troops came dangerously close to the gates of Kyiv. But the resistance was fierce. Ordinary people joined the army. Volunteers set up shelters and organised supplies. Patriotism was evident in every sphere of life. Citizens supported the army in any way they could, giving them clothes, food, medicine and even helping them make Molotov cocktails.
Our Indian community, which consisted of maybe 15,000 before the war, suddenly became smaller. The student population left. Families went back. The rest of us helped each other, and stood by the embassy as it evacuated Indian students. It was a massive task as there were no buses. Only trains were operational but options were limited. My family in India was terrified, and called us regularly. We arranged food and shelter and guided students over the phone. Sometimes we met them in person in Kyiv before sending them to the borders. Many students got transfers to colleges in neighbouring countries. They were stressed as they were living in cities near the border. Those weeks were some of the hardest of my life.
By March, the attacks had intensified. My family decided to move to western Ukraine to the city of Lviv, near the Polish border. Normally the drive takes six to seven hours. This time, it took three days. We had to cross numerous military-controlled checkpoints, take diversions, contend with fuel scarcity and brave the cold weather. But along the way, ordinary Ukrainian citizens showed extraordinary kindness. Families threw their doors open to us. They served us soup and cooked potatoes, and we often got a warm place to sleep. In Vinnytsia, a family hosted us overnight and shared their meal, though they had little to spare.
We stayed in Lviv for three months. It was my friend Sergei who had arranged a flat for us there. Later, when things in Kyiv stabilised a bit, we returned home.
Raids and countdowns
War changes everything. Air raid sirens alert us to incoming missiles and drones. It is true that we have grown used to the loud sounds of the sirens. We even have a mobile app that tells us when something is launched from across the border. It estimates the amount of time we have to take shelter. Imagine living under a silent countdown.
Electricity became scarce when power stations were bombed. In winter, we had electricity for just six to eight hours a day. Work and daily life became difficult. Meetings with friends grew rare. Travel was nearly impossible because airports were closed. To travel abroad, we drive across the border to Poland and take a flight from there.
In the middle of all this, we continue our work. Through IPMA, we have donated supplies worth about USD 10 million to hospitals and soldiers. Donations are in the form of essential medicines and financial aid through the President’s agency. From 2022 to 2024, we have donated around USD 16 million worth of medicines, USD 26,000 as financial aid to the President’s Fund and to rebuild the destroyed children’s hospital in Kyiv. Rehabilitation includes counselling and holistic psychological aid to children of the fallen soldiers. That is the least we can do.
I know friends and neighbours who have lost their loved ones to war. They are devastated but proud of their sons.
Of course, life in Kyiv is more than just war and work. In between the raids and the volunteering, we sometimes enjoy moments of normalcy. When I crave traditional Kerala food, Natalia drops into a small Pakistani shop nearby to buy lentils and vegetables. Dosas are a regular feature on our dining table. Sometimes, we buy ingredients from Poland. We celebrate the little things, but the festivals are quieter now. I am a Liverpool fan and never miss a match. Sometimes, just watching football reminds me that life can be normal. I also enjoy movies — Hollywood mostly but I don’t mind a good Malayalam or Tamil movie when I get the time. When people ask me what I miss most about Kerala, I always say the festivals, the temple sounds, the monsoon rains and the boat rides amid the coconut palms.
Looking ahead
Sometimes I ask myself why I have stayed in Ukraine all these years — 45 to be precise. The answer is simple: family, work and a sense of belonging. My wife, my friends, my community, my responsibilities are all here. This is my second homeland. It will survive the war and I want to see Ukraine being rebuilt. I want to see it prospering and finding justice. India gave me my roots, Ukraine gave me my wings. I can abandon neither.
War has tested us but it has also shown the strength of ordinary Ukrainians. And for me, it has shown how a boy carrying Kerala in his heart can also stand shoulder to shoulder with the people of Ukraine. Back home in Ernakulam, I have painted the gates of my house yellow and blue, the colours of Ukraine.
Even during a war, life has its moments. I still sit with friends and argue which is better — dosa or borscht. I still cheer when Liverpool scores. I still tease Natalia when she mispronounces Malayalam words. The future of Ukraine is uncertain, but my hope is clear. A country must have the right to choose its path. No one should take that away and no one can. I believe justice will come, maybe slowly, maybe with more fighting, but it surely will. And when that day arrives, I will once again sit at a café in Kyiv, sipping coffee and chatting with my friends.