How I'm Doing

How do you think I am doing? A 34 year old newly turned widow. My whole world turned upside down with one strange phone call. The life I knew for 14 golden years, wiped out in seconds. 

No handsome husband to fight with and then make-up. A son without a father. An entire life we envisioned together, gone. Just like that, all with one phone call.

November 6th, poopie's birthday, December 6th, the day he died, January 8th, Riaan's birthday, January 31st my birthday, February 9th, our wedding anniversary and 13th July, our poopieversary. These dates and months are going to hit me like boulders falling off a cliff, till the day I die. It will stick out like a sore thumb.

Riju asked me if I felt peaceful. I told him if the Joker were real, I would be it. Bloodied cut lips drawn into a forced smile and having the ability to blow up an entire building or town with no remorse. I have nothing left to lose anymore. Might as well cause a sizeable amount of destruction.

Will I ever heal? Will I ever be happy? And not just forced happy, for the sake of my child? Now I really am dark_angel_8731 (my yahoo ID that poopie made fun of). Guess what pupu, the joke's on you, because you've filled my head with darkness. My heart has turned to stone. I probably don't have a soul anymore and my brain has turned into dynamite, just waiting to explode. 

Well done! All that is on you. Still resting and feeling peaceful, wherever you are? Snap out of it, NOW. 

Riaan

Riaan, our little bun,

Whose face shines brighter than the sun,

Half you, half me,

Our precious little third pea,

We waited for five excruciating years,

Walked straight through hellfire and overcame our fears,

God tested us,

And after much fuss,

He finally came into our lives,

We were so overjoyed, we kept giving each other high-fives,

Today, I look at his adamant little face,

And quickly realise, I can never take your place,

But try I must,

For you have thrust,

The biggest challenge of my life,

One that cuts sharper than a knife,

You have wounded his soul and mine,

Still, our lives are entwined,

You belong to us and only us,

My poopie and Riaan's baba, there is still so much left to discuss,

If it weren't for our baby,

I would have joined you maybe,

One tempting cut to the wrist,

With my hands balled into a tight fist,

But I won't, not until he is eighteen,

He is still a bean,

Our darling little bean,

Who has turned just a wee bit mean,

Can't blame him,

For you are missing, you who satisfied his every little whim. 

Beach Therapy

I've been listening to The Weekend, Poets of the Fall, Steel Panther and The Lonely Island just to keep you close. Every song weighs down heavily on my mind. It reminds me of the specific conversations and the activities we were upto as we heard each one. You compartmentalized your music, just like your life. Chill music, weekend music, drive music, slow jazz, inspirational music and work music. I'm doing the same. I've compartmentalized my life and music into, pre-poopie and post-poopie. 

Strangely, it doesn't give me any solace. Only more pain and heartache over the beautiful memories and life we shared together, one that I can never have ever again. So, I went to the beach this morning, on a whim. Drove the car straight to the water with the baby and parents in toe. The lashing waves calmed me down instantly. The baby began throwing mud all over himself and his grandfather in no time. He dug his palms into the sand, drenched himself with it, shoved some into his mouth and continued flinging it around, like he had discovered brown gold.

You would have chuckled, watching his antics. Better yet, you would've joined him. Then, I drove to Saravana Bhavan. We drank your favourite filter coffee and walloped some delicious ghee laden pongal, masala dosha and puri masala. Remember Pongal, my favourite South Indian breakfast. Therefore, your favourite. Because, happy wife means happy life. Your philosophy not mine.

The night lamp and hallway light have been flickering on and off furiously ever since I came home. Is that you? I've been getting concerned messages and calls from your friends and mine. Two of your colleagues from work (those two kids you adored) have been going on and on about how much they looked upto you, the stories you narrated to them about Riaan and me, our life together and so on. It felt good, talking to them. Yesterday of all days, I needed that reassurance from the universe that you did in fact put the baby and me ahead of yourself, in your own warped way.

I told Ritesh I want to join MMA classes, but nothing is open at the moment (because Chennai). He told me to converse with an autorickshaw driver in my broken Tamil, I'd have a live MMA workout instantly. I agreed with him wholeheartedly. We spoke about other important things as well, but this part of our conversation was my main takeaway. 

Coming back to this morning's beach therapy session; our last visit to Juhu beach made you a beach convert as well. More of Besant Nagar beach for the baby and me. It doesn't take away all the pain, but it makes us forget, at least momentarily. 

The Ones That Got Left Behind

I'm oscillating between anger and sadness, with the stunt that you've pulled. None of the people that you held in the highest regard have reached out to me. Not one single person. Your work-wife looked dishonest and unconvincing. He told me to consider him a big brother. I almost told him to F!%k O#f but held my tongue. I already have two big brothers and a sister who can make chutney out of him.

You died for those traitors. I hate you for that. You never prioritized your health, your family time and your precious sleep. I saw you sleeping your hardest on 6th December '21. I only wish you slept like that when you were still alive. How many more movies we could've caught on the big screen. The new Spiderman movie released, just after you died. 

Riaan asked about you this morning. "Why has Baba not taken his big suitcase with him?" I replied saying, "He has left it for you my darling". He giggled and said, "Oh! Okay!"

Watched a stupid Malayalam movie yesterday, called "Kurup". It had too many scenes of Bombay and reminded me instantly of our life there. Your motionless body, lying in an impersonal corner of Bombay Hospital kept flashing in my head like an alarm. I quickly ran inside my room, switched off the lights and howled  as quietly as I could. The baby kept circling around me. Luckily, the lights were off so he didn't see my tear streamed, blotchy face. I don't want to burden him with my sadness. He has his own to deal with it. 

I read him a storybook last night about a family visiting a Zoo and he immediately asked about you. He thinks you've gone to the office poopie. I didn't bother correcting him. Let him wait for you. I know you won't let him down. You will visit your son. I know it in my heart.

Since gyms are shut in Chennai (now stop your sadistical chuckling, Chennai is not a village!) I've started evening and morning walks in our colony. It's not the same as walking in Raheja Vihar, but it will have to do. Home food is excellent and I'll bloat like a balloon before I know it. 

Have you met everyone up there yet? My grandparents? Nitin? Akshay? Your grandparents? How is everyone? Do you have drinks in heaven too? The logo of all your favourite beer brands bring a pang to my heart now. I might just start drinking beer now even though it tastes like horse piss. I saw multiple BMWs drive past me yesterday evening during my walk. I'm still not convinced as to why you had your heart so set on buying one.

New plan; I'm buying a BMW bike. I'm a bike rider remember? You're the car lover. I know you hated me driving my Scooty Pep. But you can no longer control my decisions. So BMW bike it is. I'll go on off-roads with fellow bikers and might even have a freak accident. Who knows? 

I have a child to raise, I know. You've happily dumped the biggest responsibility of our lives, on my shoulders and gone. So, I've taken it on, just like fixing the bathroom flush, changing a bulb, finding a dusting maid, finding a tenant for our Kandivali flat, getting Riaan admitted to a good school and so on. Then the bike accident can happen.

Our baby will be three years old on the 8th. I've taken over the cake design as usual. We're not calling anyone home this year though or decorating the house. We are in mourning after all. I still haven't prayed. Unable to find the strength in me to allow you to rest in peace. Don't rest in peace. You haven't done anything peaceful, in life or in death. I'm torn between intensely hating you and missing you terribly. My mind keeps replaying every conversation we ever had, from 13th July 2008 to 6th December 2021.

Why didn't you come home earlier? Why didn't you sleep earlier? Why did you miss my delivery and seven months of my pregnancy? What can be more important than being a father? Why did you travel so much? Why did you dress up so badly? Why didn't you ever comb your hair? Why didn't you wash your hands more frequently? Your chubby fingers always stank. What I wouldn't do now to have one last whiff of that nasty smell. 

You've murdered me along with you. I saw a Lenovo Thinkpad at the airport baggage check-in counter and I thought I'd die then and there. Going to the airport and sitting on a flight back to my parental home took everything out of me. I'm never leaving Chennai. I never want to see Bombay in my life. I don't want to board another aircraft or see an airport ever again. 

You wait for me wherever you are. I want you to regret all the decisions you ever took in your life, that excluded the baby and me. We were important. And you didn't give us that importance. I want you to repent, wherever you are. If I cry for 2 hours everyday, I want you to cry for 20. Keep crying until I meet you. Cry until you have no tears left inside you. They say you're a higher soul now and are in a different place. I don't care what you are. You just wait and cry. That's your only job now.

Stay Strong

Quite sick of hearing this little tit-bit,

Ever since God forced you and I to split,

Have you lost your 35 year old spouse?

Felt suffocated in your own house?

Did your better half go for an important meeting?

And leave the client's office with a heart that stopped beating?

Have you pushed your soulmate into the fire?

And felt tempted to jump into the pyre?

Have you rubbed ghee on his entire body?

In a crematorium that looked utterly shabby?

Have you smelt the ashes of the love of your life?

Listen long and hard when I tell you this, I AM A WIFE! 

My strength was my husband,

I'm barely able to stand, 

So please, I BEG YOU, stop telling me to be strong,

It sounds like a very badly composed song!

The Homecoming

I'm home. Or am I? I entered the house I grew up in with mixed feelings. I always wanted to come back to Chennai to pursue my career. The work life balance in this city is better. Or at least it was, eight years ago. I would be able to raise my child and head back to work. But how could I convince you? You, a Chennai hater and climate change expert, with your heart set on the world. 

I prayed hard to every God I know to just come back home with you and the child. God, granted my wish, but in such a twisted way. When I entered the bedroom I lived in pre-marriage, my eyes fell on our wedding photo. I instantly burst into tears. Every inch of that room reminded me of the girl who dated you and was waiting to get married to you. 

All the other rooms in the house have our wedding photo as well. I entered the kitchen and saw the same model of the coffee machine you used in our first house at Kandivali. I saw a wedding invitation lying on the dining table. I hadn't exercised because there is no gym near our house. First strike against Chennai. You would've made fun of the city in a heartbeat. 

I've been a fire breathing dragon all morning because of that one change in routine. You would've told me to calm down. But there is no you anymore. Just two anxious parents, in their late 60s and early 70s wondering what to do. 

So first things first, I'll join the gym tommorow morning and take the baby to the beach today. He hasn't asked about you yet. He asked about Vasavi aunty and his house. So I video-called Vasavi and told him this is his house. He shook his little head vehemently and said, "No. This is ammumma and Ajja's house". I replied saying, "I'll make a house, for you, me and Baba. Will you live with me there?" 

I've forgotten how everything in this house works, me, a 34 year old newly turned widow. How can I expect a 3 year old to quickly adapt and acclimatize? It will take time, for the two of us and my parents.

The fact that I'm no longer a child had to be dinned in quite rudely this morning. I apologized and told them the Cooam river had flooded my head and to forgive me in advance for any future bad behaviour. Do you remember the Cooam river poopie? That's what you've done to my brain. Congratulations! 

If you're having any second thoughts about  coming back from the dead, now would be the time to do it. I doubt you're at peace. For selfish reasons, I don't want you to be. Just come back already and I promise I'll stop nagging you about your lifestyle, your lack of sleep and your taste in music. 

Goodbye Mumbai

Ritesh and Rupa took me to our childhood favourite haunt - Laxmi. The auto ride from home till the restaurant had my heart soar up in earnest hope. I was sure you would be waiting for us there, cup of tea in one hand and Misal Pav in the other.

We ordered your favourite dishes, Misal Pav and Dahi Papdi chat. I discovered yet again, that our tastes in food were vastly different. I hated both dishes. The sugary, ginger chai made up for the terrible tasting food.

We spoke about you for one hour endlessly. By 10pm I told them we had to wrap up, because daddy would be worried sick. I will always be a school girl in pigtails for him! The fact that I have a son, ran a house for 8 years and lived away from them independently is something he conveniently forgets. 

So we rushed back home, to find daddy pacing in the dark, staring at the clock. Rupa giggled. I requested dad to go to bed, but he stayed put until we all said goodbye.

I'll miss our friends poopie, yours and mine. But this city brings a pain to my chest. It gave you to me 14 years ago and then took you away, just as easily. Every road reminds me of you. I have to get away. 

What hurts more than your death is the life you didn't get to live, but so badly wanted to. You wanted to mould your son into a fine young man. You wanted to buy a BMW this year. You were going to take a week off for our eighth wedding anniversary. You wanted to take me and Riaan to Europe. 

I'll try my best to fulfill these last wishes of yours. Will you help me? I'm no longer that typical clingy Indian mom by the way, I've decided to let Riaan marry whoever he wants. 

I've had a barrage of condolence messages and phone calls from people I barely know, they are indulging me with stories of how you touched their lives. I find myself consoling them and vice-versa. 

I smelt your shampoo for an hour today and wrote notes on the foggy bathroom mirror. You will answer my questions, I know. 

I miss you. So does Riaan. He has promised to come with me on long drives, shopping trips and superhero movie marathons. Wonder how long that will last! One pretty girl and I'm out. 

We visited Zora one last time today and Mano flung Zora and Riaan up in the air like dumbbells. They were thrilled, especially Riaan. He lived for moments like that with you on the weekends. It was very obvious from his actions, that he loved you more than me. His little heart is broken poopie. I havent been successful in fixing it just yet. 

I've always told you I can't raise this child alone. Remember that now, more than ever. You hold his hand, whenever he needs you. Because he needs you, more than me. 

Are You Home Yet?

The fathers cracked open a bottle of whiskey last night and were high as kites. Surya came to visit and they were ecstatic to regale the youngster with stories of war and government policies. Occasionally, they forced him to eat a paratha, which he refused politely at first, then with a powerful NO. 

Your death has forced my family to fly in from Dubai, Chennai and Trivandrum. Our sweet neighbours from D block (Vaishali, Sony and Rita aunty) have finally visited our new apartment. My building friends have dropped in too. I'm confused. Isn't death supposed to be a period of mourning. Why does it seem like a celebration all of a sudden? Why do I feel like you'll suddenly unlock the front door, grab both fathers by the shoulders and say, "Daddy, Baba, pour me a peg too!"

The baby and I, have always had an active social life during the week just to bide time. I would introduce you to the husband of the newest mommy friend I had made and you would either grunt looking at the gentleman or make polite conversation. Your mood solely depended on your workload during the week. This week feels just like that. Something tells me, you'll be back home for the weekend any minute now. 

I somehow cannot forget the image of you lying motionlessly in a corner of Bombay Hospital. How easily you breathed your last without a forewarning. Your blue lips and closed eyes will forever haunt me. Your green office shirt had been roughly pulled off your chest for the CPR procedure. 

What were your thoughts in your final moments? Your boss said you wanted to come home. I want you home too poopie. This house suddenly has too many empty spaces. It scares and suffocates me. I can't stand it anymore. 

The boys have begun work on your album. I made Kiron share our pictures from '08, our first month together as a couple. It opened a floodgate of memories. Now I'll only have these glamorous pictures of you. You will forever remain young. You always convinced me that you were the better looking between the two of us. I agree. I'll age and look wrinkly.  You on the other hand, will forever be a dimply young lad with the sweetest face in the world. 

Didn't matter if you put on or lost weight, shaved or didn't, you always looked radiant. Your thick eyebrows, beautifully curled lashes and massive toothy smile were more than enough to light up any room you walked into. 

Riaan asked about you today as well, "Why has baba gone without his suitcase?", "Will baba come back?" and "I want baba in every room - my bedroom, your bedroom and the living room". I blinked in response. How am I supposed to play the role of baba and mumma now? 

Tomorrow I will stuff eight years of my married life and three years of motherhood into cardboard boxes. I'm running away from this beautiful house that you made for us, so that I don't have to look at aeroplanes landing from the baby's bedroom window anymore. I instinctively look at my phone to receive a one word message from you, "Landed". And the next second you would call, "Almost home. What chocolates can I buy for you from the airport? Ill pick up a toy for Riaan as well. Is he awake?" 

All these memories and more, will haunt me, till the day I breathe my last. Waiting for God to shine me up to you. You died a natural death. If I must find my way back to you, I must die a natural death too. I just hope it happens quickly. 

The 15th Day

15 days since you've been gone, where have you reached? Are you still with me inside the house or soaring in the skies like a free bird? I felt a boulder inside my heart last night and the tears were never ending. I think you've gone. Will you come back? Can you still see me? Are you happy or sad?

Is there a God? Do you regret not praying with me everyday inside our little home temple? I've stopped praying by the way. I'm still coming to terms with the massive challenge you've left behind for me. Today I'll clean your guitars, amplifiers and wires. I'll store them away in the loft. Riaan can have them when he is ready. 

Riaan asks about you everyday. "Where's baba gone?", he questions. I try my best to explain to him that you are with God, but he comes back to "Where's baba gone?". Do you regret leaving your almost 3 year old behind? I'll design his third birthday cake as "Baba's big blue car".

I've been hearing the words, "Stay strong and be brave", quite a bit in the past 15 days. I'm sick of it. You were my strength. People will come and go, but you and I were forever. Remember? Now I have no one to share that forever with. I hate happy couples, especially couples with babies. Old married couples in their 80s and 90s make me cry. 

Will you always be 35? When I die and go to heaven or hell, will I see you as a 35 year old? You told me, you will wake up next to me, even when I'm old. You promised me several more decades of mad fun, randomness and poopieversaries. I can never go to Bangalore again. Or live in Bombay. Or go to Delhi. Each city has a beautiful memory of you that breaks my soul. 

Our son just woke up, he said you carried him last night. You've definitely left the house. I can feel it. Time appears to be vast, black and never-ending. No one to take me to the mall, to the movies, to restaurants, to the beach or to friend's houses. I can go alone, yes. But it just won't be the same without you. Nothing is the same without you.

I can never go to Starbucks, eat a McDonalds burger, go to Clearing House, Indigo Deli or look at a musician without crying. Why did you leave? I know I'm supposed to pray for your soul to go in peace. But how can I pray for peace, when I'm far from peaceful?

Did we meet as kids, so you'd leave me so quickly? You've left behind a jacket that still smells of you. Your toiletries have your scent. Your gold wedding ring, has become so sharp around the edges, that it pokes me. These material reminders of you comfort me, but only momentarily. I need you. I miss our fights, your laughter, our movie watching marathons in bed, our spontaneous drives that always led to you saying, "We need to plan these things better. Now I don't want to go back home so quickly". 

The weekends have no meaning anymore. I have nothing to look forward to on Friday nights. No one to pull the sheets off me and tickle me until I wake up. No one to wake up our sleeping baby at midnight. I'm so sorry I paid a little more attention to him when he was born. I know you hated it. If I could re-live 2019 all over again, I would have dumped the baby on someone else's head and spent every free minute with you. To hell with his night feeds, sleep schedule and diaper changes. 

I have and always will love you, more than him. He is a part of you, so am I. You created him, you created us. There is nothing without you. Riaan and I are broken. We have no one to mend the broken pieces. You've orphaned us. 

Are you really at peace? Do you have even a shred of regret inside you? Why did you prioritise that murderous job so much? What has it given you? What has it given us? Riaan will never be a management consultant. None of the kids from the next generation will. I'll make sure of it. 

Shame on them for not honouring you, even in death. God is watching everything. They will reap the karma of their actions soon. They have families too. They have the curse of a wounded young widow, following them like a shadow forever. I thank ammumma for teaching me every powerful Mantra in the world. I know what to do spiritually. 

You promised me you would have "the chat" with Riaan, when he reaches puberty. I shudder to think about his teen years now, he has your genes and mine! Double whammy! Yikes! But his mind is yours, for that I am thankful. 

I can't say rest in peace, how can I? You've left so much on my shoulders. I need you, every step of the way. Please stay, if possible. I'll talk to God. 

Being Mrs Poopie

Rajarshi Bhattacharyya, to the outside world was an ace guitarist of some of the most popular underground metal bands in the country. He was a Partner at BCG for the climate change vertical. Some called him a mentor, some a creative juggernaut, some a force to reckon with and so on. But to me, he was always poopie. We met as clueless 21 year olds, who had no vision or mission for the future. The only thing we were sure of was each other. 

We had an impossible love story that transcended geographical, cultural and emotional barriers. We were poles apart as individuals. He had a deadly focus on anything he touched, while I drifted along like a butterfly. I didn't get along with half his friends, didn't like the music he played or listened to, didn't like his taste in food and didn't agree with his spendthrift ways. 

At times he dominated the relationship and at times I did. But eventually, the man always had his way. The house decor, the big spending decisions and how the child should be raised, he merely consulted me in such matters, for ultimately he would take the call. 

We dated for 6 years and were married for almost 8. He promised me 99 anniversaries together. He lied. Or maybe he meant it, now I'll never know, for he literally "dropped dead" doing what he loved the most - his job. I begged him to quit and consider leading a less stressful lifestyle. But he never listened. He missed seven months of my pregnancy due to his international travels and missed my delivery. I reigned down on him like a wounded dragon and he experienced a woman's wrath firsthand. But there was still no stopping that shameless, ambitious, headstrong, driven man. 

I quickly realised when our son was born, that I had two babies to take care of. My baby husband and my baby son. He may have been a maverick to the world, but at home, I couldn't differentiate between the two. The competition between them got hilariously ugly. The conversations between them were, "I came first, therefore your mumma belongs to me", "I will sleep on Mumma tummy, you sleep elsewhere", "Go away Riaan", "Be quiet", "Pinch your cheeks" and so on. 

The silly games they played, shocked, appalled and amused me. They would both watch my face intently as they swung from one daredevil stunt to the other. "I'm so glad, we have a little boy. He is so tough and can be flung around in any direction", he would say and throw the baby around like a pair of dumbbells. 

He was a perennial fence sitter. He would express a desire to buy something for the house or himself and would take a year to finally purchase it. House and baby related matters, were strictly not to be discussed with him on the weekends. He didn't like it. "Figure it out", was his life advice to me, each time I went to him with a problem - personal, professional or house related. 

I love my grandfather and brothers so much, that I ended up marrying someone just like them. Especially my grandfather. Poopie and he had the same qualities - quiet, humble, passionate, dedicated, hardworking, hugely successful, minded their own business, didn't like gossiping and had hearts of gold. I performed his 11th day puja yesterday and the Pandit-ji told me that I prayed with all my heart and that I pronounced difficult Bengali mantras better than even a Bengali speaking person would. Then he re-assured my mum-in-law that poopie's soul has attained Moksha, that there would be no re-birth for him. I wasn't surprised upon hearing this. That's exactly how my appuppan took his last journey as a soul as well.

Now I have so many stars in the sky, watching down upon me, I know. But this pain in my heart, will it ever go? Each time my son or I reach a milestone in life, will poopie experience it? When the baby and I are in pain, will he feel it? Does he still love us? Does he regret leaving us so suddenly? Does he wish to come back? So many unanswered questions. 

Float Among The Clouds

Single mom. Young widow. 30-something dying of a cardiac arrest. These were alien concepts to me until four days ago. I was mid-way through my evening walk on 6th December, when I received a startling phone call from my husband's boss. He told me that my poopie had collapsed midway through the presentation and that I must rush to Bombay Hospital immediately. He told me it would take a bit of time and advised me to keep the child at home.

I rushed home, informed my in-laws about what happened and jumped into an Uber. I was all set to spend the night with him and dressed accordingly. My mother in law was in tears and my father in law was breathless. But I was at peace and was sure that he was just plugged up with wires lying in the emergency ward. I was all set to give him a whack on the head and a pinch on the bum, telling him to stop working like a machine, at least now. 

We hardly had a married life. I met him on the weekends. He was flying to another city on Monday and that's how our life was for eight years. We long distanced before marriage and even after that. It always pinched me. But I tried my best to look beyond that. I cribbed to all and sundry about how I was left to fend for myself on the weekdays. But come the weekend, my poopie would be home with his signature brand of mischief. Those sparkly eyes and naughty smile was a forewarning that he was about to do something nasty. The child and I were his eternal targets. 

I digress. Coming back to that fateful day, we reached the hospital and ran to the emergency ward. Someone caught hold of me and said, "Gayatri, sit down". It was poopie's boss and colleague. I vehemently shook my head and said, "Just tell me. What's going on?". He replied with, "Rajarshi is no more". I lost balance and howled on the floor holding his shoe. My mother in law, looked at him and said, "You killed him". I didn't argue. I was glad she said it. I screamed at them to take me to him. They took me to a corridor and there he was, my beautiful beautiful poopie, covered under a white sheet, eyes closed, blue lips. I hugged him tight, he still felt like my telly tubby man, the one I had hugged all night long just a few hours ago. I cradled his head in my arms, kissed him and told him to wake up. But he didn't respond.

My world had ended. There is no God. How can there be? Why did he take my perfect perfect poopie? We had a son to raise, a life to live. I took my mother in law and son to see him. My son didn't understand much, or maybe he did, afterall he has the brains of his father. He frowned and looked away. The formalities took forever to end and we finally brought him back home. 

I didn't sleep on the first night. I slept next to the icebox he was placed in. The following day went by in a whirl of activities. I kissed his cold face repeatedly and wiped the liquids flowing out of his nose. The crematorium had too many flies, so I swatted them vigorously off his face. I rubbed ghee on his hair, face, chest, hands and feet. His hands especially I rubbed a little more, because I knew that would be the last time I would ever hold hands with him. I also wanted to lessen the unnatural stiffness on his hands.

I pushed him towards the fire along with the crematorium workers, prayed for his soul and watched him go up in flames. Two days later, I collected his ashes, inhaled it deeply and flowed it away into the Banganga Tank. That was that. 

My poopie who filled my life with laughter, madness, dirty jokes and immense joy, was dust. He was finally asleep after years and years of slogging like a machine. He didn't love his job, he inhaled it. Climate change, hydrogen, green energy and natural gas were his life. On weekends he brought books from Amazon on the topic and watched videos on Youtube. Our romantic drives were filled with conversations on climate change and him clicking pictures of piped gas and green vehicles. His passion killed him.

Riaan, our son, will never forget his father. I will make sure of it. He will be raised exactly how his father wanted him to be raised. I only live now to continue his legacy. I will keep the professional, personal and musical beacon flying high. Mrs Rajarshi Bhattacharyya's work is just beginning. A full life to lead keeping all his goals in mind. But after that, I will find him and never let go. 

If there is another life, I want to be born again only as Mrs Rajarshi Bhattacharyya. I'm conflicted between letting your soul go now or hanging on to you. But as always, you will decide. You lived life on your terms. And I will respect that even in death.

Riaan and I will love you forever. 

The Escapades of Ducky, The One Eyed Duck

My grandfather, aunt, cousins and sibling have been animal lovers, for as long as I can remember. We had a tortoise, a rabbit, some hens, dogs of course and then came the icing on the cake. My cousin, added a one eyed duck and a squirrel to this mix. Her lifelong dream was to become a veterinarian. 

Summer holidays, were always spent together in our grandparents house. On one of those holidays, she was accompanied by this screechy, one eyed duck. It was constantly attacked by our pet dogs. We always knew the exact location of the duck thanks to the dogs' desperate and relentless barking. They simply, couldn't stand the duck! 

Her parents finally had to intervene. They advised her to give the duck away to a nice homely farm, where she would be looked after well. She agreed reluctantly. So when the summer holidays came to an end, Ducky exited our household without much ado. A few days later however, we heard from the farm owner that Ducky had been murdered by a bunch of stray dogs. Her parents and our grandparents shuddered upon hearing this ghastly news. More than the Duck being murdered, their concern was how to keep this information hidden from the original Duck owner, aka my cousin.

I was the first person they caught and warned to keep mum, for nothing stayed in my stomach or mouth for too long. It was already overflowing with so much bakery food. I agreed reluctantly. I met my cousin a few months later and kept grinning like a Cheshire cat. Now how and when do I explode this bomb, I wondered devilishly.

The opportune moment came all too soon. All the adults were busy shopping for clothes. I caught hold of her and uttered only three words. "Ducky, your ducky", and I shook my head vigorously, feigning fake sadness. She immediately burst into a loud, blood-curdling howl and the waterworks began. The adults came running. One look at my face and they knew what had conspired. 

I don't know why, but even now as I recall this incident, all I can do is smile wholeheartedly. Ducks are good on the plate. Roast duck, Japanese duck, duck fry, duck curry, so many ways to eat the creature. How can you possibly think of petting one? Would you pet your pepperoni pizza or your lamb burger? Serious answers only, please. 

(Image Source : https://montreal.ctvnews.ca/duck-duck-poop-driven-by-tik-tok-trend-spca-sees-surge-in-abandoned-and-messy-ducklings-1.5521702) 

Being a Public Relations Professional

My mother's dream for me was to become a doctor, my grandmother told me to become a lawyer and my sports teacher was convinced I would become the next Badminton sensation with the right training. I nodded along to everyone's suggestions as I had no fixed ambition or goal in mind. I was simply an innocent people pleaser. But through it all I always knew that I loved people. I loved forming friendships and I fell madly in love with whoever I met. According to Google, this obsessive nature of friendship means I'm a deeply lonely person. Perhaps, I am.

When school ended, I still had no idea what I wanted to do. So I enrolled myself for a B.sc Electronic Media course, which was a mish-mash of all the forms of media available. Did I want to be a journalist? Did I want to be a news anchor? I was still confused. So I dabbled a little with print media, didn't like that, packed my bags and went back home. Next, I enrolled myself for a Masters in Public Relations, the course was easy and mundane. 

The first job I picked up after finished my Masters course was a dealbreaker. I loved my bosses, my colleagues, the work environment and my clients. I finally found my ocean to swim in. I was a happy little fish. I loved my job despite it's myriad challenges.

The good days were really great and the bad, absolutely lousy. And i miss it. I wonder when I'll be able to get back to it with a hyper toddler at home. Do I want to get back to it? The work hours with my last agency were erratic. They expected me to work endlessly, like I had no one waiting for me to get back home. 

Do I get back into P.R or a purely content writing role or should I dabble in teaching? I'm at a crossroads. One thing I know for sure is that whatever I do, it must involve an interesting set of people. Colleagues make everything livelier. Without them, what is the point of going to work? 

(Image Source : https://digitaluncovered.com/best-public-relations-agencies-in-india/) 

 

Mumbai's Kaamwali Bais; Boon or Bane?

It was during the Covid lockdown that the whole of India began to really respect their domestic help. We realized the amount of work they do, quietly and tirelessly in our houses, to keep it spotlessly clean. The kaamwali bais in Mumbai however are a different breed all together. They have the confidence of a lion in an urban jungle. The prey they hunt is you and me. With so many high rises built in a 1 km radius, it is but natural that they have a sense of pride and high self-esteem.

No house in Mumbai can function without the help of bais. Two and three per household is the norm. One for cooking, one for cleaning, one for dusting or looking after the kids/aged parents. The requirements are aplenty. High-rises are always surrounded by a thriving community of slum dwellers. The two worlds co-exist peacefully, for they depend on each other. 

The bais I've dealt with have been hardworking, kind, sly, lazy, nosy, neat, punctual, late, greedy and so on. I just had a tussle with my newest hired help, a dusting maid. She is always late, more interested in gossip than her actual work and is constantly asking for favours. We got into a war of words today, as her work has become shoddier and shoddier by the day. She has a justification for everything and has a tailor-made answer, for every question thrown her way.

At the end of that useless battle, I felt like a pig in muddy water. She is not going to change, I realized. She might quit before I fire her, only to be employed in two other houses. The way my bais talk to me, has me wondering whether I've hired them or they have hired me.

The longer they stay with you, the more they take you for granted. The power is always in their hands, because we can't live without them. Well, we can, but with a lot of backache, knee pain and sore-throat as we are not used to cleaning our toilets or sweeping our floors. 

I am grateful to my existing domestic help, who cook and clean for me. I never take them for granted and almost always give in to their demands, even if it is unreasonable. So yes, I am personally responsible for their reckless attitudes and over-confidence. I try my best to maintain a good relationship with them. And, I sort out all their personal issues as much as I can. 

(Image Source : https://www.shutterstock.com/image-vector/indian-housemaid-kamwali-bai-cartoon-character-1434258044) 

Mumbai, No Man's Land or The City of Dreams?

Eights years since I've lived in Bombay. There are days when I'm madly in love with this city and then there are days, when I just want to run away to a remote island and never return. Is this really my home? Or a city I'm merely transiting through? Only time will tell, I suppose. 

Work friendships are just that - bonds you form at work. Not with everyone of course. You do remain friends with 2-3 good souls who genuinely want to form a bond with you, beyond work hours. My first job in the city, was with a dream boss, Mary Oommen. The work environment was a cozy little cocoon, that she had built to help us succeed. She had personally handpicked us, we were Mary's angels (like Charlie's angels of course, only we didn't have to save the world). 

She was our work-mom. She pushed all the right buttons and threw us outside our comfort zones. Mary was the first non-family member, who called to congratulate me on the birth of my son. She gave me subtle parenting tips and told me in plain words to quickly get back to work for the sake of my sanity. She still calls me once a year, to check up on me and keeps throwing job offers my way, to get me out of the house!  

The next organization I joined was where I truly experienced the harsh world of corporate politics, Mumbai's corporate politics, mind you. I cried in the office and I cried at home, everyday without fail. The travel time to work, didn't help either. One hour in the morning and four hours in the evening. Looking back, I wonder if it was even worth it, going through all that travel sickness and dealing with a toxic work environment. My colleagues however, made my time worthwhile. I had multiple shoulders to cry on, at least.

Fast forward to five years, I'm deep in the throes of motherhood, raising an unreasonable toddler whose only answer to every question is "No" and "Don't talk". I'm laughing my way through this phase as well, for I know he will soon grow up and go to school. I pray hard to every God I know, every night, for schools to reopen quickly.

Through each of these experiences, I have seen firsthand, the resilience of people and faced their wrath/cut-throat behaviour. I have also seen their friendly and approachable nature. A city is made up of its people. And this city has a mixed bag of folks. Sometimes they disappoint you, with their cold behaviour and sometimes they overwhelm you with their kindness. 

The past five years, have given me a lot of time to form friendships in my immediate neighbourhood. I've had the chance to interact with toddler moms, moms of twins, moms of teenagers. And the conversations have always been refreshing. I look forward to playdates everyday. A day without a playdate, is a day wasted. 

So coming back to the question in my mind, is this my city, now that I've lived here for close to a decade? Can I call myself a Mumbaikar, even if my heart is still in Chennai? Let me just leave it to time, to unravel these answers. All I can do is sit back and watch. 

The Fear Of Driving

I got my four wheeler driving license on 30th November 2009. I have a two wheeler license as well, but that's another story, for another day. The common thread between both my licenses have been my patient mother. She took me to the driving school, stood in the heat watching me drive with instructors, took me back to the hot non air conditioned government RTO to collect my license. And, she constantly reminded me of how i rammed into her leg, during my two wheeler license test because I was so nervous.

So after my mother acquired lots of grey hair and one nearly amputated foot, I finally got both my licenses. (I'm talking about 2009 when one license wasn't valid for both two and four wheeler vehicles). I remember that hot sunny day, like it happened yesterday. I had to take half a day off from my working day. I was working with Amazon then. I wore a white, flowery chiffon salwar kameez with dupatta that didn't help with the blistering hot weather. By the time the whole affair of getting my license ended, I was a sticky, sweaty, sun-tanned mess. I rushed back to office and to my workstation with my newly minted driving license.

Flash forward to a year or two later, when I had finished my post graduation with Stella Maris College and had picked up a job with Hanmer MSL, my father made me drive everyday to office. I would stop the car at a bus-stand opposite office and daddy would drive the car back home. 

And today, despite the best efforts of my parents, I'm sad to report, I'm still a shaky driver. My BP hits the car's roof each time a biker or an autorickshaw tries to overtake me. My incessantly nattering toddler doesn't help ease my mind's stress. The hubby encourages the tot's behaviour and ignores me fully. His explanation is, "Our lives are your responsibility now. So you can either kill us or take us home alive. No pressure!"

I'm determined now to master this beast. I will not allow my fear to overcome me. I will drive confidently, even if it means that I may have to forgo with the last bit of my thinning postpartum hair. 

The Movie Hall Experience

I've been a lover of the big screen for as long as I can remember. One movie a week was a necessity ever since I started my undergraduation. My friends were subject to it, my parents and now my husband. But ever since we became parents, this exercise seemed like a distant dream. The pandemic didn't help either. 

Today however, we decided to step out for a movie after what seemed like an eternity! We left the toddler behind with my ever-helpful in-laws. Our departure from home depended on the toddler's eating schedule, so we didn't pre-book a movie. We drove to R City Mall, Ghatkopar (the closest mall from our house) as fast as we could, rushed to Inox and booked ourselves two tickets for Marvel's newly released movie "Eternals".

I'm a big Marvel and DC fan, but I had no idea Marvel had released a new movie. The biggest advantage of the pandemic was that, the movie industry had to release everything on streaming platforms (which I lapped up eagerly for the past 2.5 years). To save time (we're toddler parents, so time is everything. Leaving a toddler at home is a ticking time bomb, that's just waiting to explode!) I told my husband to book tickets while I select snacks. He looked at me with amused eyes and said through his mask, "Poopie, you've forgotten how it's like to watch movies in the theatre haven't you? Who is going to allow you inside without the tickets?"

Fast forward to three hours inside the movie hall; my mind was blown away with the storyline and visual effects of Eternals while my husband grunted a few times, staring at his phone impatiently. "When will this end?", he kept muttering under his breath. The minute the movie ended, we rushed to the food court, gobbled down two burgers and proceeded towards the car.

Not a spectacular day, I agree. But a completely out of the world experience for us as we had no screechy toddler to deal with. Just two messy burgers, a Tandoori chai and an imaginative, nicely shot movie. I reminisced about Tony Stark, Captain America and Black Widow for there was plenty of mention of Thanos and the Avengers throughout the film. 

I reminded the husband about the tears I shed when Tony Stark died and how I hated our son to grow up in a world without the Iron Man. He quickly told me to grow up. I said I will not for there is no shame in shedding tears for superheros.

Do watch movies in the big screen. It really is something! Take it from a tired toddler mom and a movie enthusiast. 

The Death Of A Friend

9th July 2021 left us all with a gaping hole in our heart and lives. Akshay Deodhar. My husband's friend and bandmate from Hellwind. When I first met him in 2014, I perceived him to be just another random bachelor friend of my husband's. We met occasionally. His smile and endless chatter bewildered me. It seemed humanly impossible for one person to be so happy and so chatty. 

Things took a turn in 2018, when I was seven months pregnant and home alone. We had shifted to Powai and Akshay lived five minutes away. I developed a complication and dialed Akshay's number without giving it too much thought. Listening to the sound of my voice, he reached home in a jiffy. He rushed me to the emergency ward of the hospital and stayed with me the entire day, until my husband reached Bombay. 

Akshay soon became a household fixture after this incident. We became very close. We had "kitty party" like lunch sessions, where we bitched about people and cracked lame jokes. He was the first friend to hold my newborn baby. He was subject to all my post partum whining. (Poor thing!) 

He was a breath of fresh air and much needed respite in the middle of soiled diapers and endless feeds. Although, he didn't get half of what we were going through as a couple with a newborn baby, he was always around for a patient hearing and some words of wisdom.

Before he left for his M.B.A course in Scotland, he met us, gave us the warmest hug and said "Do you think, I'd leave without saying goodbye?". Who knew that would be the last time, we would ever meet him.

His death has left us in complete and utter shock. We think of him every time, a friend gets married or we have get-togethers. I even dreamt of him last night, where he told me with that giggly look "Come find me Gayu, I'm right here. Come talk to me." 

We miss you Akshay, today and everyday. We know you'll be waiting for us up there and perhaps even watching over us, when shit hits the ceiling. You were my confidante, Riaan's godfather and our extended family in Bombay. 

Appuppan

2nd February 2004 changed all our lives forever. One minute I was in school and the next I was attending my grandfather's funeral. His death came as a shock to us, as he was so active. He was still going for his morning walks, driving his car and shopping for groceries. His last meal was a biryani at a cousin's wedding, which he thoroughly enjoyed and then the chest pain began. I wasn't physically present for his final moments and that's something which will crush me forever.

He was more of a friend than a grandfather. If he had any grandfatherly instincts, he showed very little of it. He got viciously bullied by his grandkids and he bullied back with full fervour. He slept all day and stayed awake at night, like an owl. But his eyes would pop open, the minute he heard the Baywatch theme on TV, however sleep deprived he was. 

He had his weekly quota of scotch or whiskey along with salty fried peanuts, which he hid very meticulously from me. But I always found his stash hidden deep beneath his clothes. On one particular Sunday, he discovered an empty jar of peanuts and instead of scolding me, he threw his glass of liquor on my face. I was shocked at first, then I viciously pulled his neatly gelled hair in rebuttal. 

Before ammumma could lay out the table for lunch, appuppan and I would step out and eat a Kalavara burger, Sharjah shake or medu vada from the road. She would be furious as we didn't have an appetite for lunch. 

We had a mild water shortage problem, as our house was built atop the hills, Dhalavakunnu hill to be exact. So Appuppan's idea of conserving water, was to pee in the bushes. There was one particular tree that faced the brunt of his ideology and it died in no time. His explanation was that he was providing it with nutritious ammonia filled fertilizer. 

When we had the occasional house guest, he wouldn't budge from his rocking chair. He left the socializing to his wife. Perhaps, I take after him, because even I hesitate to talk to strangers. His driving skills were far from extraordinary. He drove his car, like it was an autorickshaw, recklessly and without concern for pedestrians and other cars on the road. On one of these escapades, he scraped the car against a relative's vehicle, that was parked outside their house. My sister and I yelped from the backseat, but appuppan assured us that no one had noticed what we did. 

We drove back home with utter confidence, only to discover the aforementioned relative's car parked in our driveway. The rest as they say is history. Fireworks blew all night, as my grandmother gave him a shelling of a lifetime. We almost got away with our crime, unfortunately ours was the only car in Trivandrum which had a distinct maroon paint, towards the bottom. The paint scraped off on the relative's car, which blew our cover. 

17 years have passed, since he passed away, but these memories are still so fresh in my mind. I'll always be Captain P Thyagarajan's granddaughter first and then come all the other relationships in my life. I feel so heartbroken that my husband, my son and even my sibling's spouses and children, didn't have a chance to ever meet him. He was one of a kind. A diamond in the rough. I can't wait to meet him in the afterlife. 

Riaan Is Two

My newborn baby is not so new anymore. Infact, he is not referred to as baby anymore. He is a toddler. An adamant, highly opinionated and dominating one at that. He decides his mode of transport for his evening walks, he decides the shoes to go along with his attire, he decides his night suit and has a scream so loud, it would put the thunder Gods to shame. 

I'm slowly adapting to this new personality. In a battle of parents v/s toddler, the toddler always wins, so best to give in and best to sit out their tantrums. It is hard, VERY hard, to have someone scream at your face 24*7 simply because his Peppa Pig t-shirt has gone for wash, or the stool to climb over the sink to play with water is missing. You either stay calm or lose your cool. 

Last weekend, the husband and I got all dolled up to hit a hip new restaurant in town, when little sir, decided he wanted to wash his toy cars in the sink for one hour. Each time we dragged him outside the bathroom, he cried until his entire body became red. We sat through that tantrum patiently.

Privacy is an even bigger issue now, as he can open doors. Just when you're about to let a big one drop in the potty, he comes barging in and says, "Move! Clean bum, now!" and hands me the health faucet. I have a habit of watching soaps and thriller movies on my mobile phone, while on the pot. In the midst of one of those scary scenes, a small figure silently crept inside the bathroom, stood in front of me and whispered, "Mumma, chuechue" and peed on my legs. I almost had a heart attack. I was convinced my bathroom is haunted by a little boy ghost. The warm liquid on my toes, the eerie whisper, it was straight out of a Stephen King novel. 

Taking him down to the park on his cycle has become an ordeal, as he moves the handle around like a crazy drunk. The "parental control" handle is a joke, as we keep bumping into walls and people. The pram is a forgotten antique now. God bless the souls of people, who want to take a leisurely walk with him. He almost plies the fingers out of your hand as he walks confidently in whichever direction he pleases. More often than not, he wants to walk on the main road, in the middle of heavy traffic, because hey, see-saws and swings are so 18 months old! He's a rebel two year old, without a cause. Get with it or fall behind. 

Muddy puddles are another fascination, thanks to dear old Peppa Pig. He jumps in them, sits on them, pushes his cycles around in them and if nothing else, he vigorously washes his hands inside them. I'll need a lot of wine and coffee, to survive this year and perhaps the next, the way things are going.