Why I'm Stepping Away From Complex Friendships

Here goes yet another controversial opinion of mine into the world—one that will probably make an entire gender hate me—but here goes nothing: I’ve always been a man’s woman, more than a woman’s woman. 

These are the reasons why: Men don’t speak in riddles; everything is either black or white. Whatever is on their minds comes out quickly from their lips. They don’t hold grudges for years or guard past incidents like a Chamber of Secrets. While petty jealousies and constant comparisons exist everywhere, they are rarely as overt as they are in female circles. I have watched female friendships of many years turn sour for absolutely inconsequential, moronic reasons. 

I give up on trying to figure out the minds of my own gender. We are too complicated and just seem to love making life complex. I’m out! I absolutely do not want to be a party to it. You’re jealous? Great. Keep doing that. You want to compare your life to mine? By all means, go ahead—just do it without me in your life. 

I can feel it in my bones when a secure friendship turns sour, and frankly, I no longer want to stay. I become polite at best, but I am definitely no longer invested. Life is fragile and time is way too short for me to figure out why someone is competing with a woman who lost her husband five years ago. I can sense when you are counting the eggs in your basket versus mine, and I don't like it. 

What started this entire thought process at five o'clock this morning was staring at my anchor tattoo and reminiscing about my late grandfather. I am his legacy to this world. I live by his ideologies: mind your own business, put your head down, and work hard. He was quieter, of course—perhaps no one talks as much as my dad, my son, and me—but the rest of me is all him. I am a simple, genuine soul who speaks her heart out. I don’t have time for comparison games and petty jealousies. Please take them elsewhere.

The Myth of "Sleep When the Baby Sleeps" (From a Tired Mom of a T-Rex)

"Sleep when the baby sleeps" is definitely the most nonsensical advice given to mothers since time immemorial. My baby hasn't slept since 8 January 2019, and he hasn't let me sleep either. He is now seven and a half years old. My power naps and gorgeous weekend siestas are completely ruined by my little T-Rex, who jumps on me with full force, shakes me violently, and finally tries to stuff Lego pieces up my nose and ears. 

So no, ladies and gentlemen, "sleep when the baby sleeps" is the most factually incorrect advice ever passed down from one generation to the next. 

As I mentioned to someone yesterday, most people are cranky and emotionally dysregulated. Do you know how that happens? A lack of sleep. To emphasize this further, I said, "I am the drama if I don't sleep." I need my glorious seven to eight hours at night, along with the occasional 45-to-60-minute power nap during the weekends. 

To quote Iron Man: "You can take away my house, all my tricks and toys, but one thing you can't take away—I am Iron Man." 

Now, to reword this for me: "You can take away my power nap, and I'll turn into a sleepy, emotionally dysregulated menace. I'll snap at you, and you, and you!" 

Just let me sleep, my child! And children everywhere, allow your mothers to sleep. 

*Big, fat, sleep-deprived, sorrowful sigh.*

Not Everyone's Cup of Tea: Turning 40, Talking Loud, and Setting Shit on Fire

I loudly announced to my team this morning during our scrum call that I can't wait to turn 40 in the next six months. My bones are at their creakiest best, my child is at his crankiest, and my back is ready to give up on me any minute now. Yet, "I know what I bring to the table professionally and personally," I loudly declared with both fists up in the air. Everyone sniggered, myself included, and I promptly added, "Too much information, as usual."

I must admit, though, I wasn't this confident even five years ago. That is terrible timing to mention, because that is exactly when my life changed forever. Is it just me, or does every 40-year-old feel the same?

Something about living half your life, witnessing death, and achieving things you thought you never could—such as traveling internationally alone with your child—is probably what gave me this confidence. Or perhaps it's the solo lunch, movie, and shopping dates I've taken myself on. Or maybe it's just the fact that I can pull off any outfit, with or without a food belly.

I'm not exactly able to pinpoint what led to this feeling, but I just feel content with my weird, little, loud self. I've accepted myself with all my quirks, and I accept that not everyone is going to like me. To quote an Instagram caption I read the other day: "You don't have to be everyone's cup of tea. Be gasoline. Set shit on fire."

On that note, I don't even like tea—especially not green tea. I just pretend to like it because I'm middle-aged now and hope to burn off my decadent meals by sipping on it. I'm more of a filter coffee or black coffee drinker. The darker the better—just like my son's humor, which is so dark and twisted that I choke back either laughter or tears listening to him crack jokes.

Almost 40-year-old woman, out!

Sardines, Stage Fright, and Shuttling Home: A Very Indian Thursday

Every year that my child takes the stage, I have more stage fright than he does. My mind is plagued with anxiety and doubt. I constantly question: Will he trip and fall on stage? Will he freeze upon seeing the audience? Will the mic stop working exactly when he has to deliver his dialogue? Will he be so sweaty that he collapses from the heat? 

My fear is valid because that last scenario actually happened earlier this week while he was practicing on stage with his classmates and teachers. So, it was quite natural that I suffered a 24-hour migraine that started at 4:00 AM yesterday morning. My heart was pounding hard in my chest as I dropped him off at the green room and said goodbye. By the end of the evening, though, I sighed a huge sigh of relief. I waved, smiled, and made conversation with his teachers and the mothers of his little friends. 

Perhaps my extreme anxiety and sleep deprivation passed right into my car, because it broke down on the side of the road with my entire family inside. We tried our best to bring it back to life, but to no avail. Finally, we flagged down an auto-rickshaw and stuffed ourselves—two children and three adult women—inside the vehicle. In that moment, we would have put canned sardines and the Mumbai local train's ladies' compartment to shame! 

My very Indian mother managed to scandalise my very NRI nephew a minimum of 100 times during that 45-minute auto ride home, saying, "See Vivi, you're in the middle of a very Indian adventure. You will never forget this holiday of yours!" Being the complete sport that he is, he didn't utter a single complaint. He simply made room for all of us, especially his mother, whom he kept reassuring to sit comfortably. I felt so much pride and joy in that moment, seeing his protective instinct and affection toward his mother. That is one non-indifferent teenage boy with a ton of empathy! 

My son, on the other hand, nattered endlessly and cracked a dozen inappropriate jokes, with each of us taking turns to say, "Please keep quiet, Riaan." 

So, that was my Thursday morning, evening, and night for you. Whew! I'm exhausted just typing all of this out. Thank God it's Friday. I'm all set to wrap up work faster than The Flash today and finally get some sleep!

An Evening of Pride and Promise: Bala Vidya Mandir’s Annual Day

I think it is safe to say that every parent, grandparent, aunt, cousin, and uncle felt a deep sense of pride watching the little monkeys in our family turn into gentlemen and young women for one beautiful evening. Year after year, the annual day function serves as the culmination of the hard work of teachers, the chaotic running around by parents for costume coordination, and, finally, the dedication of our children to put up a show that will be remembered for an entire year—until the next one arrives. 

I know I am doing something right in the world when I see my child take the stage year after year, perfectly performing the part assigned by his diligent teachers. For that one evening, every family member gathered in the hall sings, dances, and claps along with every little one on stage. This country possesses such bright young talent. That is an incredible amount of potential stepping into the world, and I know Bala Vidya Mandir will mould them absolutely right as they transition into future leaders. 

My heartfelt gratitude goes out to every teacher, volunteer, and child for giving us yet another memorable Annual Day. I cannot wait for the next one!

High Stakes and Human Mistakes: Delivering Results as a Mother and a Professional

As a mother and a working professional, there is only one feeling I have from Monday through Sunday—extremely frazzled. Even then, as all working professionals and parents will quickly agree, there are only two aspects of my life that really matter: my son, who is my legacy to the world, and my work, a part of myself that I continuously put out there to contribute to my organisation and, ultimately, society at large. Everything else in between is just fluff. 

How good of a job am I doing as a mother, teammate, peer, and employee? Is my son satisfied with the amount of time I spend with him? Are my bosses happy? Are my peers—both juniors and seniors—able to learn something new from me every day? And am I learning something new from them? Frankly, these are the only things that matter in the grander scheme of things. 

I remember juggling my laptop over advertisement copies while nursing my son in the wee hours of the night, driving myself, him, and perhaps my then employer completely mad. But even as I reached the brink of insanity balancing work and a newborn baby, I ensured that I delivered everywhere. And that is all that matters, folks—delivery. Timely delivery that is accurate and without a single mistake. 

You cannot send organisation-wide emails to over 1,000 employees informing them about a town hall in a 7-star hotel without getting your facts right. And if you do (guilty as charged!), you quickly unsend that email, take ownership of your mistake, and keep moving forward. 

Corporate slave and devoted mommy, out! 

What did you learn today? I would love to know in the comments section below.

To My Safe Space and Sister from Another Mother

My dearest Oishee, 

I have completely lost track of the number of nonsensical voice notes I have sent you over the past two years, which you have always simply understood. You are the first and only person to ping me, whenever I am on leave. We are trauma-bonded, period-bonded, life-bonded, and just truly sisters from different mothers. 

Life without you around in a couple of months is incredibly hard to imagine. Whose brains and WhatsApp screen will I bombard now? I can already feel and see this sudden, looming vacuum once you leave. You are my survival kit and my ultimate safe space whenever my mind wants to flit. How exactly am I supposed to navigate daily life without sniggering and giggling by your side? 

Words are far too small to describe how much I am going to miss you. Rest assured, I will continue to bombard your WhatsApp screen with completely out-of-context messages, which I already know you will understand. 

This is not a goodbye, my Oishee. This is an "I am going to catch a flight to Hyderabad very soon and we are going to have that cocktail" letter. 

Love,

The mad person you have come to know as well as yourself, 

Your Gayatri

Back to the Cubicle: The End of an Era (and the Return of My Sanity!)

The days of remote and hybrid working have come to a full stop, and I've been told to come back to the office. The mom and daughter guilt kicked in hard as I broke the news to my son and my parents. And guess what their reaction was? Utter relief. My mother just grunted and said, "Please go to the office," and my 7-year-old's face lit up so bright he looked like a cross between a Bumblebee and a Cheshire Cat. I burst into laughter. Clearly, no one at home was going to miss me! 

So, off to work I go with my 10,000 multicoloured accessories, high-voltage chattering personality, and a post-lunch tiredness that is going to kick in so hard I'll definitely miss my bed. So that's that—the end of an era of one dreamy way of working. 

I can't say I was the biggest fan of remote working anyway, because I wasn't built to sit quietly at a desk and be hyper-productive. It was very unlike me! No, I've always loved in-office setups because I get to discuss everything and nothing under the sun with all and sundry. What a glorious feeling it is to meet human beings once again and chew their brains off. Ooh, and the sugary coffees—a 10-kilo weight gain, here I come! Bring on the office selfies, office gossip, long strolls post-lunch, and finding out the name of every single receptionist and security guard. 

Wheeeeeee! Life is looking mildly exciting again—like oregano on pepperoni pizza, extra peppers on pongal, and cardamom inside Mutton Biryani.

Moving Past the "Fat Thor" Era: A Fresh Start

Holiday weight, that dreaded stubborn belly fat, and the sudden 2-kilo weight gain that slaps you from simply sniffing a dark chocolate bar. I blame my big brother for looking like Thor from "Avengers: Endgame". He brings too many sweet liquor bottles, gigantic bars of chocolate, and dates of every variety. Evenings fly by in eating and overeating, talking and over-talking. 

No, I cannot look like fat Thor anymore. Instead, I am going to take his mom's advice just before he rushes back to the future with Rocket Raccoon. He hugs her and says, "I love you, Mom," and Frigga, his mom, replies, "I love you. And eat a salad!" right before he calls for his hammer, Mjolnir. 

"Yes, I'm still worthy too," I muttered this morning, quoting Thor again to my Gen Z trainer when she asked, "Are you walking and swimming every day?" The judgmental little thing immediately spotted my liquor, meat, and chocolate belly. 

This stops today! No more heavy food for me from this moment onwards—only smoothies and maybe a piece of dark chocolate. Okay, two, if I have to be realistic. 

"Fat Thor" out!

I've Got This Handled: A Journey Through Loss

Grief is nothing but a celebration of love. The amount I've spoken about my late husband in the past five years with friends—old and new—and family, of course, is endless. From Milo milkshakes to Tumi bags, to all our holidays and every restaurant he ever took me to in my life—everything has been written about, spoken about, and photographed so much that people around me are either tired, amused, or irritated. 

I can't help it though: a) I'm a chatterbox, and b) it was probably a good marriage/relationship, even though we had our share of fights. That one man made me realise I can love fiercely, intensely, and give it my all. All of me truly did love all of him, to quote John Legend. Either he brought out all that love from within me, or I was raised by a suffocatingly loving family—it's a combination of both I guess.

When I think of my late husband, I think of him with love and almost zero hate. In the past five years, I've forgiven him for abruptly dying on me and our son, and in that forgiveness, I've found peace. I wonder which stage of grief I'm in now—perhaps it's acceptance. I'm at peace with having a husband who passed five years ago; I no longer curse him when I have to take decisions alone for my family of two. 

Rest in peace, Poopie. I think I've got this handled—life and motherhood, I mean.

A Parent's Dual Mind

My 48-inch personal photographer had a fainting spell today,

It was enough to take my breath away,

His teacher assured me that he was his usual chatty self,

With a mouth that flaps too much for a little elf,

My brain immediately split in two,

Half at work, half at school, as the panic just grew and grew,

He bounced in at three as usual,

sounding a little too casual about his fall,

His baby ego also took a fall from his lack of body control. 

By evening, the entire day had taken its toll on his little mind,

He turned into a little demon—the screechiest kind,

My 48-inch personal photographer had a fainting spell today,

It was enough to take my breath away.

Post-Vacation Blues and the Laundry Mountain

A relaxing getaway is all well and good for the mind, body, and soul. However, what is not fine is the pile of laundry you bring back at the end of that getaway, which immediately undoes all that relaxation. Four piles of stinky clothes have been washed today from our recent beach vacay, and I am ready to just curl up in bed now and wake up after 100 years.

Of course, I am dreading the Monday morning grind, which is dancing uncomfortably close to my face. I am ready to reload on that holiday now—minus the pile of laundry afterwards. Massive, bittersweet sigh! Why do good things always come to an end? Why did our holiday have to end so fast? Why do we have to wear so many clothes and swimming costumes during the course of the aforementioned holiday?

I am as heartbroken as my 7.5-year-old now. Today definitely feels like the worst day of my life because, from tomorrow, we are both "going back to hell"—his words, which I would like to cut, copy, and paste. He is lying on my bed now with Tiger Balm all over his leg and a gloomy look on his face, gloomier than Doctor Doom, I can assure you.

I look happy on the outside as always (a deep-rooted childhood problem which has no solution, unfortunately), but I am so sad on the inside that I could probably cause volcanic eruptions along the Ring of Fire in the Pacific Ocean, Indonesia, and Iceland. So, that is that. Goodbye, happy vacation; hello, mountains of laundry that just do not seem to end. My washing machine probably wants to slap me now.

Sun, Sand, and Seafood: Our Blissful Escape to Poovar

Beautiful, green, and sultry Poovar is the perfect quick getaway with family if you love seafood, sun, sand, pristine seas, and boat rides. All you can do here is eat, sleep, do a mild amount of sightseeing, and repeat.

Our holiday is coming to a close in less than 24 hours, and my son and I are already feeling the Monday morning blues. We checked in at Isola Di Cocco, a charming Ayurvedic beach resort, late Thursday afternoon. We have been eating, swimming, and sleeping ever since we arrived. The weather makes you want to just snooze because it is burning hot outside.

We indulged in a lovely boat ride around the breezy island of Poovar on Day 2 and visited the stunning Aazimala Shiva Temple on Day 3. Now, it is almost time to head back home. Cue the sad music!

The staff at Isola Di Cocco are warm and friendly. The food is scrumptious, and the pool beckons you after every meal to melt away all those extra calories. I am going back home three kilos heavier in body, but three kilos lighter in spirit. I highly recommend Poovar and Isola Di Cocco for anyone looking for a quick getaway from the mundane Monday-through-Friday drill.

I have lost track of the number of glasses of sweet and salty lime soda I have had, along with Uncle John's ice cream and every variety of fried vegetarian and non-vegetarian delicacy. I am off to sleep now for an hour before my child knocks me on the head with his swimming goggles and drags me back to the pool. Goodnight, everyone! What bliss it is to enjoy heavy afternoon siestas after indulgent seafood meals.

Burp, snore, splash, repeat!

Endless Plates and Infinite Love: Welcome to My Family

My family shows love through food. The more you are fed, the more you are loved. Personally, I am not just loved; I am doted on and endlessly pampered, treated like the youngest even when the next generation sits right next to us, nibbling on all that gorgeous food.

Yesterday, I visited the house I grew up in. My uncle (Mohan uncle) and cousin (Swaroop chettan) had already left for the U.S. for the World Cup, but they left their presence behind in spirit—in the form of a mountain of gifts, food, and a dream cake chocolate tub. As I ate my way through the decadent spread of fish fry, prawn fry, chicken curry, fried rice, pappadam, and payasam, I probably shed an invisible half-tear. I pictured my cousin, his family, and my uncle sitting at the table, eating along with the rest of us.

However, the food was so spectacularly good that I had no time to feel sorry for them—or myself—for missing out on that shared time. Instead, I did exactly what my late grandparents trained me to do since I was four years old: eat like a pig. I truly wished I had two stomachs for breakfast and lunch yesterday.

My cousin, Sowmia, has turned out to be even more loving and suffocatingly hospitable than my late grandmother. She doesn't sit still or sit down to eat with the rest of us until everyone is fed and overfed, and until every last pappadam and puri reaches the table from the kitchen.

Welcome to my home and my family—where the food never ends, and the love is infinite. Yesterday afternoon, when I mentioned feeling lonely without a husband, my mother pointed to the army sitting around me and said, "You have all of us. You will never be alone.

The Confessions of a Workaholic: Why I Can't Stand the "Sabbatical Bro"

I'm probably going to get a lot of hate for writing this piece, but here goes nothing: I don't like people who are on perennial sabbaticals and have no major life goals to conquer and achieve. Before you hit the close button on this piece, hear me out.

I didn't take a sabbatical from work after I delivered my child, while nursing him during the wee hours of the morning, on my husband's death anniversary, on his birth anniversary, or even on the day we met when he was alive. Add to that, my 35-year-old husband dropped dead at work. It's safe to say, and I think it's been clearly established: I'm a bloody workaholic. It is not something I admit with shame or pride; I simply state hard facts. This is who I am.

I've rebelled against bosses and work cultures that don't fit in with my core ideologies. That being said, I'm grateful for the 16 years I've put in across various organisations, industries, and sectors. I am grateful and blessed to have worked with some of the sharpest minds across industries, and I still have a lot to learn and a lot to achieve. I don't want to retire at 60. I have wonderful uncles in my family to look up to who haven't stopped sailing and haven't retired from their merchant navy careers well into their 70s. (I'm talking about you, Aji maama—I'm sure you're reading this!)

So no, I simply hate people without goals who are sitting tight at home with zero aspirations for themselves. Stay-at-home mums are not included in this list; they have aspirations, and those are tied to their kids. I was raised by a strong stay-at-home mum, so I'm leaving this crowd aside when I state that I don't like people without goals.

The next category of people I don't like are the braggers. Five years of work experience, one unheard-of award somewhere, and suddenly they think they're Elon Musk. Out! Just get out of my face before I punch you on the nose and hand it to you to get stitched back up in an ENT ward. Just get out into the world and throw yourself hard at work.

Take your sabbaticals post-6 in the evening and run multiple side hustles. Financial freedom, regardless of gender, is priceless. It simply gives you peace of mind and buys you all the luxuries in the world. So why deny yourself that?

I am ready to give a TED talk now on the various categories of "sabbatical bros and sisters" I've met through the years. The PPT is in my head; I just need someone to push me out there, let me crack a bunch of offensive jokes, and then I can breathe in peace.

Workaholic out! Holiday mode on (but only for 4 days).

From Baby Whale to Waka Waka: My Post-Dessert Fitness Plan

What a time for Shakira to drop "Dai Dai", the official anthem for the 2026 FIFA World Cup, looking the way she does—smoking hot at 49! Hips that look like they can melt butter and a face that can make angels take off their robes along with their wings, saying, "Join us!" 

I repeat, what a time for Shakira to drop "Dai Dai" because I'm right in the middle of a mini family vacation, chomping on every variety of dessert, dates and junk food and looking like a baby whale. I sniff and put on 500 grams, another two sniffs and my weighing scale will probably break.

 

I'm so ashamed to look the way I do—a small podgy balloon—in the face of a very fit and shapely 49-year-old Shakira. Being a decade younger than her, I'm motivating myself to skip dinner for the rest of the week while thumping down half a jar of Nasi and Mee's Milo Tiramisu and one gigantic triangular piece of Toblerone. 

But from tomorrow, after I finish eating all these sugars, I will skip dinner and soon, in another decade, I will definitely look like Shakira. 

In her words, "You knew from the day you were born, That here, in this place, you belong, You've been this brave all along, What broke you once made you strong."

My Pillars of Strength: A Note of Gratitude

A moment of appreciation for this couple who have quietly stood by me as I fell apart and slowly pieced my life back together bit by bit—my big brother, Arjun, and my sister-in-law, Vandana. There have been countless moments where I have been irrational and griefy, and they have quietly just let me be. They are both experts at gauging my expressions and have held me up, literally and figuratively, either in words or action.

While the whole world sees a griefy widow, I think this couple experienced my heartbreak along with me. They just understand my need to breathe Starbucks air now and then, eat a Naturals ice cream, or just be dramatic whenever I choose to be. They see the gaping void in my life, which I try to fill with a mountain of work.

I am currently at a stage in my life where I am a chatty Preeti from Dil Se, all set to marry Amar, who is in love with a toxic, self-destructive, terrorist Meghna. But here is the catch: there is no Amar or Meghna in sight for me. I am happy to do the "Jiya Jale" dance on a boat all by myself, thank you very much—wet saree and all.

And before you ask, no, I still haven't figured out what "Munthiri muththoli chindhikko Vanjani varna chundhari vaavae Thaanginnakkath thakadhimiyaadum thanganilaavae hoi" stands for. I digress as always; if distraction had a face, I would be it. Blessed to have this wonderful couple in my life and all the giant bars of Toblerone they bring every year, along with sweet liquors and dates of exotic varieties.

Embracing the Cracks: The Art of Owning My Grief

I have been owning my grief since 2021, and I think I am pretty much killing it—especially the owning part. From Starbucks takeaway boxes to drink nights with friends and family, everything is a constant reminder of the life I once had.

I am my grief, and my grief is me. It is similar to the scene in The Avengers when Hulk confesses to Captain America seconds before stopping a giant flying monster with one punch: "That's my secret, Cap: I'm always angry." It is impossible to forget a habit of 13 years in just five. Time definitely heals—I can confirm this—but it does not make you forget.

I am cursed with the memory of an elephant (the kind found only in the deep rainforests of the Amazon, I presume) because I forget nothing. I still remember the scent and aroma of the food my grandmother fed me when I was four years old. Therefore, it is mission impossible for me to forget a life I spent 13 years trying to build.

Everything I am today—the multiple hair colour changes ranging from blue to purple to cherry purple, and the tattoos—is a reminder of the person I have become. I am still bright and sparkly on the outside, but more like a ceramic piece restored through Kintsugi (or Kintsukuroi). This centuries-old Japanese art form fixes broken pottery with a special lacquer dusted with powdered gold, silver, or platinum. Instead of hiding the cracks, this philosophy treats the breakage and repair as a beautiful part of the object's history. Please note: I am Hulk, and I am Kintsugi.

I am not sure how many humans openly admit to their flaws, but it is the first thing I do whenever I meet someone new. This is especially true if I like them and want to incorporate them into my life. It is best to lay out all the negatives first and observe whether they want to bolt and run or if they want to stay and uncover more dazzling bits of my personality—like my two-decade-old junk jewellery collection. 

The living are strange. They live as if they will live forever. I call the living "strange" because I have been both. I died the day my husband did, and I have taken multiple births since he passed, trying to make sense of the barrage of work disguised as school, office, and anything else that catches my fancy.

So yes, I have been owning my grief since 2021. I am probably killing it because I allow it to wash over me whenever it wants to, knowing the feeling will eventually pass on its own. That is the only way you can beat grief: you never truly can, so you simply have to accept it.

The Odyssey: A Cinematic Masterpiece That Hits Close to Home

You know what is worse than widowhood? Being a wife in waiting for two decades, similar to what Queen Penelope endured while waiting for Odysseus after the Trojan War. I could truly feel the lonely wife's pain, as well as the anxiety of her son, Telemachus, who yearns to know everything about a father he has never seen.

These characters connected deeply with me. I, too, am a wife without a husband. Unlike Penelope, however, I know he is never coming back. I also have a son who asks curious questions about a father he only vaguely remembers from when he was a two-year-old baby.

I could feel the pain of Odysseus as he tries his very best to save his crew from mythical monsters and angry gods, starting with the Lotus Eaters, the Sirens, and Scylla and Charybdis. After a decade of fighting at Troy, Odysseus faces another exhausting decade at sea, doing his best to get his crew home. He and his men anger the sea god, Poseidon, by blinding his son, the Cyclops Polyphemus. This enrages Poseidon, who ensures that Odysseus’s journey home is plagued with disasters.

The amount I missed my late grandfather as I watched this gorgeous Nolan wonder on-screen is hard to put into words. Had he been alive, I am pretty sure he would have looked me in the face, grunted, and said, "Rubbish. None of this exists."

From a queen's agony as she wonders if she is widowed and must remarry, to the anxiety of a son who wants to learn whether his father is alive, and finally to the husband who yearns to go back to his family while being stranded on Calypso’s island—where he is held by the nymph Calypso for seven years—I could feel all of their anxiety and pain for three hours.

The Odyssey is for anyone who is curious about Greek mythology, is a Nolan fan, or just wants to be enthralled by the wonder of larger-than-life storytelling. The Odyssey is an all-heart movie. Do not miss it.

The Saturday Morning Obstacle Course: Uncles, Kids, and Swimming Pool Chaos

There is nothing more dangerous than Indian uncles trying to unwind in a swimming pool, except perhaps little children. If you pit the two against each other, you will find yourself with a draw; no one wins, and everyone around both species loses.

The ones I bumped into this morning looked and sounded like frogs. They grunted and stared at me with annoyed, beady eyes each time I crossed their path, while the kids kept taking horizontal laps as I tried to swim vertical ones. The whole affair lasted for a full hour. By the end of the swim, I felt exhausted but happy, as if I had just finished a vigorous game of Minecraft or Super Mario—constantly maneuvering around objects appearing out of nowhere. Instead of dodging video game bombs, I was avoiding bubbly farts and the occasional patch of diluted pee, while the actual gamers were replaced by the chaotic crowd in the water.

Post-swim, my brother had to navigate unruly road traffic—specifically Gen Z "champions" slithering like snakes on their mopeds. I turned to him and confirmed that this was exactly what I had just experienced in the pool for the last hour. Indian swimming pools are often flooded with more uncles and kids than actual water; tackling them is a massive feat, especially first thing on a Saturday morning.

Shadows on the Slopes of Raheja Vihar

I still remember that first morning walk I took a week after my 35-year-old husband abruptly passed away on a busy Monday afternoon—December 6th, 2021, at 4:30 PM, to be exact. As I walked as a new widow up and down the winding slopes of Raheja Vihar, I felt unsafe and unprotected, as if a vital safety shield had been unceremoniously ripped away from my life. Walking briskly, I held myself firmly with both hands in a sort of self-hug, wondering what I would do with the rest of my life. I felt completely lost and alone. The pain in my chest felt like a boulder, and that boulder seemed to multiply every day.

I walked all around our apartment complex searching for my late husband. I went up to the terrace, stared at the sun, and remembered his last words to me: "There's no point living in Bombay if we don't live in a sea-facing apartment, Poopie. Let's move out from here in the next two years."

Five years have passed since he left, and honestly, whenever life throws googlies at me, I still feel like that 34-year-old new widow with a two-year-old, wondering what to do next. The dead definitely do not watch over you; I can say this with utter conviction because, other than the Amityville-like horror episodes I experienced in the first month of his passing, there has been complete silence. Death is final. There is no turning back or "moving on" from that.

What death did do for me was make me more emotionally intuitive and sensitive. Today, it is very easy for me to sniff out bullshit from people on both the personal and professional fronts. I can gauge a person's intentions through mere chatter or a single gaze. Honestly, I have reached a stage in my life where I only seek intensity—intensity in life and in work. If you are not 100% genuine with me, I will simply walk away because I really do not have the time. If a 35-year-old can drop dead on a Monday afternoon, so can I. So, do not waste my time or yours.

As for my late husband and my grief, they have changed me irrevocably. Some chord inside me has snapped violently, and there is no way I can go back to being that carefree, pre-grief girl. Two tattoos, multiple hair colour changes, and a moderate amount of sweet liquors and cocktails later, I can confirm: some days, the boulder inside my chest is very loud. All you can do is let it be loud until it decides to quieten down. In the meantime, accept everything and expect nothing from people, or from life.

The Day the Earth Spun Too Fast: A Mother’s Race Against Time

When a child vomits, the Earth turns once on its axis at a very high speed. My world turned this morning at exactly 7:45 AM—five minutes after he had eaten a good breakfast, twenty minutes before my trainer was scheduled to arrive, and with only an hour left before I had to log into work.

There was vomit everywhere. I practically broke down trying to clean it all up while racing against the clock. It was the race against time that truly got to me, even more than the freshly eaten breakfast I had handmade for him just five minutes before feeding him. More than a tsunami of vomit, there was a tsunami of panic in my head. Today was going to be miserably late and, in general, just miserable.

My attention was completely fragmented: half my mind was on my sick, puking child, half was at work, and the other half was consumed by unexpected school errands that had popped up randomly at 9:00 PM last night. I am tired just writing this.

Coming back to my recurring point—that women, especially women, simply cannot have it all—it couldn't be more apt than on a day like today. I need to be split into three separate parts today: one at work, one to worry about my sick child, and one to run school errands. How I will manage to finish it all remains to be seen. My impossible day starts now, and I am already late for work.

Sigh, and sigh.

The Sizzling Brownie: Owning the "Single Mom" Title

The little devil and I had to pay a visit to his paediatrician yesterday because he has been coughing his bum off and his skin was so burning hot, you could fry cheese nachos or French fries off it. So, Sir sat at home and created havoc everywhere—starting with my home, my parents, and the hospital.

There was a pimply teenage boy and a couple of little babies who were either highly entertained by him or wanted to wear earplugs. Each time a baby gooed or gaaed, he'd imitate their noise and say, "Awwww, what a cute little bean," "Poor little baby," and "Maaaamaaa, why is that baby crying?" When I would reply with a shrug or say, "No idea, Riaan," he would loudly announce to all and sundry in the hospital, "But maaamaaa, you're a single mom, you should know why babies cry! Now tell me why they are crying!"

Honestly, in that moment, I wished the earth would swallow me, similar to Sita being swallowed by the Earth when Ram wife-shamed her. From where had he picked up this term, "single mom"? Was it my book? Was it his YouTube Shorts? Was it chatter amongst his little friends? My soul pretty much stepped out of my body, and the rest of me wanted to run away as well, the more he called me a "single mum" louder than a loudspeaker.

As I write about this incident this morning, though, I realise: why should I be ashamed of being single and a mom? I've been both for a solid 5 years. Let me own it and simmer in that title like a hot piece of sizzling brownie inside decadent chocolate sauce. No vanilla ice cream required for me, please. This sizzling brownie has been sizzling for a while now. Brownie, out! Single moms, in!

The Heart of the Mothership

The mothership turns 71 today,

And I'm glad she laid out the way,

I turned out nothing like her, much to her dismay,

She's politically correct, come what may,

Not aggressively noisy,

Or too voraciously voicy,

Self-sacrificing and bearing the brunt of everyone's pain,

She truly has nothing to gain,

In feeding us and listening to us rant,

But that's a mother's love for you, something we take for granted and pretend we don't want,

I call her Mother India,

Because she goes out of her way for anyone she loves, like a swimmer in Olympia,

Thankful to be born of you,

Today I'm two,

And both our brains you've managed to decipher, occasionally feeling blue,

I'm sure you're wondering,

How you managed to create children and grandchildren whose minds are always wandering,

Perhaps the apple doesn't fall too far from the tree,

To have you as our mum and grandmum, our hearts are always filled with glee,

The mothership turns 71 today,

And I'm glad she laid out the way.

The Human Mixed Fried Rice: High Voltage, No Filter

My brain is constantly alternating between two modes: either I am in full Chaiya Chaiya mode, pretending to be a sexy Malaika Arora dancing enthusiastically on top of a moving train, or I am John Rzeznik, looking sexy as hell and belting out, "And I’d give up forever to touch you, / 'Cause I know that you feel me somehow. / You’re the closest to Heaven that I’ll ever be, / And I don’t wanna go home right now." This is not a brag; it truly is a childhood issue. I bring the drama to dramatic, the hurry to a hurricane, and the "Tsu" to a tsunami—you get the drift.

After 39 and a half years of self-introspection, I have realized that I am simply "too much." Thank God I still have friends who love me; my family just has to tolerate me, bless their souls. My mood changes quicker than a pendulum. I can go from happy to sad in under ten seconds flat, and back from sad to happy in under five. You could say my emotions are flaky. I just can’t make up my mind whether I want to be heartbroken or deliriously happy, count my blessings, or constantly crib that my back and knees hurt.

I am mixed fried rice with way too much mixed inside. When the waiter asks, "Chicken or prawns, sir?" and you reply, "Mix"—I am that mix. I am mixed fried rice, mixed noodles, and an American chopsuey with everything tossed in. What a strange personality indeed.

To quote every superhero movie’s cliché dialogue: "My abilities are a gift and a curse." In my case, my superpower is that I can read a room and a person like Superman using his X-ray vision, peering right down to your underwear. Whether you hate me, love me, dislike me, despise me, or try to brush me off, I catch it faster than The Flash. I am loud, chatty, giggly, and entirely in your face. Luckily, my friends understand. It is far too late in the day for me to change this high-voltage personality. So, wear your sunglasses or pop in some earplugs, because this chatterbox ain’t keeping quiet anytime soon.

Hyper bunny on sugar-free ice cream, out!

Dreaming of Doshas: A 3 AM Sleep Experiment

So last night, I tried something different to break my shitty sleep cycle. I kept my phone miles away from me, hoping for an undisturbed eight hours of sleep. But lo and behold, I woke up right along with the ghosts past midnight—at 3 AM sharp, just like I always do.

This kind of waking up is tricky: either you go back to sleep quickly, or you stay awake like a night owl staring into nothingness. Luckily, last night I did drift back to sleep. I ended up dreaming about masala doshas with my child, which was strange since we hadn't eaten or ordered them recently.

In the dream, we walked into a humble-looking South Indian breakfast restaurant with steel tables and simple sofas. We waited for someone to take our order. Finally, we decided to walk around to find a waiter to place our masala dosha order. As I kept thinking about that dosa, I wondered who was actually going to eat it; Riaan loves puris, and I am off carbs. Yet, for some reason, the masala dosha was stuck in my head.

When we turned around to look back at our table, we discovered to our shock that it was occupied by five or six potbellied uncles. Luckily for us, we suddenly spotted my mum at another table. As I looked at her face in the distance and wondered why on earth I wanted to eat a masala dosha, I woke up again.

This time it was 5:30 AM. Phone or no phone, my sleep is definitely still disturbed. But looking on the bright side, without my mobile phone, I suppose the time taken to drift back to sleep was quicker. And masala dosha dreams, however perplexing, are never a bad thing to have.

Not-so-tired owl, out!

The Uninvited Intruder

Migraine attacks,

Sneak in like an uninvited rat,

Loud, screechy, hammering,

The pain has me clamouring.

I bury my head in pain,

Lying in the farthest corners of my bed, forlorn. 

With migraine attacks,

There are no hacks,

Except to wait for it to pass,

Like an intruder who wants to trespass.

A migraine is a full mind and body experience;

It has you feeling delirious,

A complete lack of control over your senses,

And even your best defences,

Can't keep it out,

All you can do is wait it out,

Migraine attacks,

Sneak in like an uninvited rat.

My Backup Squad: Celebrating Three Special Birthdays

The upcoming week is filled with the birthdays of three of my favorite people—my mother, Riaan's best friend Agu, and my dear friend and colleague of more than a decade, Shina.

All three of them are Cancerians, meaning they are highly empathetic and deeply sensitive. It is a good mix because they keep my son and me in check. I dump my emotional load on both of these ladies like nobody's business, and they solve it for me in under ten seconds—either with a kind word or a pair of their lovely slippers. The message gets delivered effectively, and I quickly move on with my life until the next problem pops up.Moving on to Agu: he is Riaan's everyday protector and guardian angel. He reports all of Riaan's daily misdemeanors to his mom, Devyani, who promptly reports them all to me.

Consequently, my post-school days are filled with either reprimanding Riaan, appreciating him, or feeling sorry for him, depending on the situation he has gotten himself into.They all have sparkling personalities. To quote Shina, when I mentioned, "What a wonderful, crabby person you are—I meant the star sign, not your personality," she quickly corrected me, saying, "We are all crabby, but still nice, even personality-wise." I quickly nodded along and wisely steered the conversation in another direction.

What would Riaan and I do without this strong trio in our lives? Read more about them and how they have significantly influenced my life in my brand-new book, "The Story of One Single Mom and Her Backup Squad," where they make prominent appearances in the prologue, poetry, and essay sections.

The links to purchase my book for Indian and international readers are available below:

For Readers in India:

Amazon India: https://amzn.in/d/075flTXm

Notion Press: https://notionpress.com/in/read/the-story-of-one-single-mom-and-her-backup-squad

Flipkart: https://www.flipkart.com/story-one-single-mom-her-backupsquad/p/itm748b32e22b9fb

For International Readers:

Amazon US: https://a.co/d/0bVbTKVs

Amazon UK: https://amzn.eu/d/0c38jlyf

The Dentist's Chair Nightmare

I have more cement than teeth in my mouth now,

Before I could even ask how,

The job was already done,

And it was far from fun,

One excruciating hour of drilling, polishing, and cleaning,

I found myself puffing, panting, and leaning,

I collapsed into a chair,

And gasped for huge breaths of air, 

I crawled back home,

My mumma's home,

Ate two tubs of ice cream,

And decided to forget it all like a bad dream,

Protect your teeth with all your might,

Lest you undergo my plight, 

Ice cream and sleep,

That's all I want for tonight, while I try not to weep.

The Legend of Swaroop Chettan: My Brother, My Superman

For the umpteenth time, I am writing about my main source of inspiration: my family. This piece is about my big brother, Swaroop Mohanlal—the man who made me fall in love with superhero movies, thanks to his extensive collection of graphic novels when we were kids. We have an eight-year age gap, and he has fully taken advantage of that situation!

Family weddings have always been so much fun with Swaroop chettan and the rest of our large family. Growing up, Swaroop chettan and Arjun chettan were the main conspirators in ruining the "first nights" of many newlywed couples in our family. Once, as a seven-year-old, I was told to hide under my uncle and aunt's bed on their wedding night. Of course, they caught me and threw me out in an instant, thanks to all the giggling coming from under their feet! 

Another time, these boys hid alarm clocks set to go off at various hours of the night just to wake a newly married couple from their deep slumber. We even stood outside bedrooms with firecrackers and matchsticks, eavesdropping on conversations and reporting back to each other.

So naturally, when I got married and couldn't spend my first night in my own house, I was super disappointed. For the first time, I was away from my naughty brothers and my family. I cried buckets of tears on my wedding day—and for a whole week leading up to it.

Both of my brothers are absolute legends. They are smart, funny, and incredibly sharp with their work. Because of them, it is only natural that I grew up to be an amazing human (cue the applause, please—thank you, thank you!).

Unfortunately, we couldn't all meet up as a giant family this year for various reasons. Therefore, I sent him a little reminder of how important he is in my life: a custom Superman and Superwoman sibling memento. I wanted him to carry those wonderful childhood memories back to the U.S. with his adorable children.

Swaroop chetta, you are one of the Supermen in my life. Thank you for your words of encouragement, and even for your harsh criticisms of my writing, which have improved my craft tremendously over the years. I don't think a single article or blog post is enough to cover the ocean of love and affection I feel for you, your beautiful wife, and your gorgeous children. 

You are an extension of me, and I am an extension of you. We are bonded forever by the late Captain P. Thyagarajan (the greatest sailor of all time) and the late Mrs. Indira Thyagarajan (the best ammumma any child could ever have grown up with).

Rest Is for the Dead: Own Your Quirks and Live out Loud

You can never be too much for the right person or the right set of people. Take this from someone who is "too much" all the time. I am often told I am like an Energizer Bunny on steroids—but no, sugar is the real key to my happiness. That, plus sugar-free ice cream and the occasional tiramisu, cheesecake, gajar ka halwa, and moong dal halwa.

Be too much at all times. Talk, laugh, and put forth your point of view respectfully. Just be too much! Being sober and calm is for when you are dead—which, practically speaking, is right around the corner.

Be remembered for everything that you are. Honestly, you don’t even have to try that hard. Be kind, listen intently, and answer with empathy. It is really not that difficult.

Definitely avoid gossipmongers and people with no ambition. My hobbies have hobbies, and my job has another job; stay super busy and occupied at all times. Once again, rest is for the dead. You are not dead yet.

If my life had a soundtrack, it would be loud, warm, in-your-face, genuine, and all heart. Any fear I ever had died the day my husband did. I am a completely different person now. I have the wisdom of Chandra from Lokah, the strength of Selene from Underworld, and the political incorrectness of Deadpool.

Mind you, I was always this person. It just got heightened by the confidence of raising a child single-handedly—with the support of my very able backup squad, of course—alongside juggling my professional responsibilities.

Be unapologetic, own all your quirks, and head into the world with utter confidence. You don’t have to fake it till you make it. You have already made it. Just keep putting one foot in front of the other, and you are good to go for the rest of your life.

Over-Enthusiastic Cutlet: A 39-and-a-Half-Year-Old’s Guide to Lifting and Defeat

I experienced lifting fatigue today. I've been going crazy with weights for the past couple of weeks and decided to push myself up a notch on Tuesday. My "old lady bones" protested—and how! Shoulder blade pain, neck pain, back pain, and parts of my body that ideally shouldn't hurt began to ache.

This is what happens when you are over-enthusiastic in life. If enthusiasm were a cutlet, I'd be a giant one, deep-fried many times over. The lesson I learned over the past three days: never take your body for granted.

You can push yourself only up to a point. Beyond that point, remember you're not Hercules, He-Man, or whichever hulky "He's" exist in the world (ooh, Hulk! I just remembered him because I wrote "hulky"). 

As I was saying: breathe, marvel at what you can do, but pushing on a day when you've already pushed yourself is probably not the greatest idea. Today, I didn't even look at my higher weights. I just stuck to the humble 2 kilos in both hands and accepted both the pain and the defeat.

At the end of my workout, my trainer lectured me for 15 solid minutes on the evils of eating Rajaram's Butter Murukku every evening to satiate my soul. I looked at her the way Skeletor would look at Evil-Lyn. She was my Evil-Lyn in that moment, and this Skeletor wasn't laughing—no, I was huffing and panting instead.

At 39 and a half years old, a mother to a 7 and a half year old, and definitely perimenopausal, perhaps I shouldn't behave like a 21-year-old when it comes to my workouts. To quote Barnabas Collins—the 200-year-old vampire played by Johnny Depp in Dark Shadows: "You must put those birthing hips to good use at once... lest your womb shrivel up and die." And, "She has the most fertile birthing hips I have ever laid eyes upon."

So yes, my hips have been put to use, and my womb is probably shrivelled up and dead.

Keeping all these very accurate facts in mind, it's time to behave less like all the aforementioned "He's" and start acting like a very, very tired "she."

And that brings an end to my bodily rants. Over-enthusiastic cutlet, out!

Ho-Ho-Ho and Dry Eyes Go

Eyes so scratchy and dry,

Even my tears can't undo this, if I cry,

In my head, I am sixteen,

But my eyes say I am closer to sixty,

"It is perfectly normal,"

Said my ophthalmologist, with an explanation so phenomenal,

So I am going to take it,

As a life well-lived, almost a super-hit,

I say "almost" because I am not sixty yet,

I still have a couple of decades in me, I bet,

Staring at screens during work and play,

Has finally led to this day,

It is okay, it is alright,

I don't see this as a plight,

Eye drops are the way we go,

And we continue to sing, "Ho-ho-ho!"

Eyes so scratchy and dry,

Even my tears can't undo this, if I cry. 

In a Fragile World, Choose Friendship (And a Good Mid-Week Read!)

There is a lot to learn from childhood friendships, and my biggest living example is my son and his best friend, Agu. Whatever the season, whichever the class, and irrespective of teacher changes or the addition of new friends, Riaan has never let Agu slip away. Their love for one another is unconditional. They stand up for each other, fight for and against each other, love each other, and are deeply loyal to their friendship. Not one bad word can be uttered in front of Riaan about Agu, or in front of Agu about Riaan. There is no room for parents to scold either of these children in front of the other without being called "evil" and "bad."

Life is full of changes, but having that one person to hold onto for the rest of your life is everything. There are massive lessons of loyalty, friendship, and love that we can learn from these boys. I hope their friendship never ends, and that they grow up to talk about future heartbreaks, marriages, jobs, and everything in between. I hope they always remain each other's safe space and sounding board. In a world filled with uncertainty and fragility, choose to be like Agu and Riaan.

On that note, my new book, "The Story of One Single Mom and Her Backup Squad," features a poem about Riaan and Agasthya's four-year-long friendship. Do pick it up and read it if you are a parent, a boy mom, or if you just want a mid-week laugh!

The links to purchase my book for Indian and international readers are below:

Amazon India: https://amzn.in/d/075flTXm

Amazon US: https://a.co/d/0bVbTKVs

Amazon UK: https://amzn.eu/d/0c38jlyf

Notion Press: https://notionpress.com/in/read/the-story-of-one-single-mom-and-her-backup-squad

Flipkart: https://www.flipkart.com/story-one-single-mom-her-backupsquad/p/itm748b32e22b9fb

Keeping Arkham at Bay: The High Stakes of Emotional Regulation

It is so important to be emotionally regulated at all times. The demons inside your head must remain only in your head. Contain them and make them battle it out with each other until they see sense, so that you do not blurt out utter rubbish to friends and family.

It is amazing how much mental clarity I have now, after spewing hormonal period rage at everyone for a week. It was not one of my finest moments, and even chocolate did not help. It was pain-induced anger—anger that showed its face because I lost control of my body. But that was my emotionally dysregulated moment for the month, and I have no excuses. I was like the little green devil from the Onida TV advertisement, only more red than green because I was snappy and far less cheerful than that little demon.

Emotional regulation is the only way you can move forward in peace with society at large. That garish thought of dumping someone inside a lava-filled mountain should only remain within the confines of your brain. Ideally, all your thoughts should remain inside your brain, unless you want to be thrown into Arkham Asylum like the Joker. And remember, there may be no sexy Harley Quinn to fall in love with you while treating you. No, those lovely things only happen in the movies. On that note, I wish I could recreate that "falling into the vat" scene straight into the Joker's hands. Sigh! I digress.

Going back to emotional regulation now: be regulated, boys and girls, at all times. It is the sane and mature thing to do. Take this advice from someone who has mostly remained insane and done only nutty things in life, such as eating five boxes of Cadbury's Nutties in one sitting. 

Okay, let me stop clowning around now. Stay emotionally regulated. Stat!

My Drama, But Worse

Tiny tongues worse than blades,

Then the adage rings true: call a spade a spade.

It's your tongue,

Placed in your little one, who swings verbal cow-dung.

A temper worse than yours,

Ready to slam doors.

You've created a mini-you,

And you understand him through and through.

Your drama, but worse,

Your overthinking, but in tumbling verse.

What have you created?

This was the bean for whom you waited,

Almost an eternity for,

But now he just wants to stare at you and roar.

Tiny tongues worse than blades,

Then the adage rings true: call a spade a spade.

Out of Office (In My Mind)

It's Monday morning,

Not sure about you, but my brain is hemorrhaging.

New tasks, fresh targets,

My mind is already on a different orbit.

Week one will definitely be crazy,

There is absolutely no time to be lazy.

Although my mind is already in Bali,

All set for a sunny beach rally,

Sipping on tropical Mai Thais,

Underneath those clear blue skies.

Ready to snore loudly and sleep,

While my brain at present still weeps.

Yes, that's a dream for another day,

Working for a future that leads that way.

But for now, it's still Monday morning,

Not sure about you, but my brain is hemorrhaging.

The Tiramisu Philosophy: Finding Peace in a World of Expectations

Releasing the weight of expectations and simply accepting things as they are—starting with people, food, and situations—can save you a lot of heartburn. Simply live in the moment. If it is meant to be, it will be; otherwise, allow it to fade away like a beautiful memory. Once again, this is applicable to people, food, and situations.

It took me exactly three years, give or take, for this wisdom to dawn on me. I realized that self-peace and contentment from the inside are the only things that can propel you forward every day.

Be the jiggly, comforting Tiramisu that you are, with the occasional crunchy ladyfinger. The right audience will subscribe to your crazy brain juice and stay. The rest will automatically filter themselves out, for Tiramisu is not for everyone—especially not for weight watchers and people with diabetes. 

You are a well-appreciated bowl or jar of Tiramisu to some people. Stick to those people and, as always, do not chase. Remain steady and calm, and top your bowl with an occasional flash of espresso.

Tiramisu, out! 

When the Grief is Griefing and the Gaajar Halwa Rules

I’ve been feeling particularly griefy this weekend, and I can’t really pinpoint why. It’s a constant, nagging feeling in the back of my brain, asking me, "Hello, is it me you’re looking for?" And I’m replying with Adele’s, "Never mind, I’ll find someone like you. I wish nothing but the best for you, too. Don’t forget me, I beg. I remember you said, 'Sometimes it lasts in love, but sometimes it hurts instead. Sometimes it lasts in love, but sometimes it hurts instead.'"

As one part of my irrational, emotional brain deals with the other griefy bits, the rational side pops out and says, "Girl, that ain’t you. Your husband is dead. You don’t have an ex who dumped you in cinematic movie style. Stop being dramatic now. Go stuff your face with sugar NOW!"

As always, I obeyed the rational side with utter discipline. I bought myself a 250-gram pack of Gaajar Halwa from Shree Mithai and pretended to share it with Mom. After I inhaled my share of the Gaajar Halwa, I stared so much at Mom’s bowl that she finally gave up. So, I ate her share and mine, and then knocked off to sleep in a Gaajar Halwa-induced, comatose state.

I woke up abruptly, still feeling tired, but decided to finish watching Project Hail Mary with my chimp. He was more impatient this time around and kept fidgeting next to me, walking away, and asking ten more questions along with his usual 10,000. We managed to finish the movie somehow, but my face looked like I'd been hit by a tsunami.

Yep, this weekend the grief is griefing, and I have no idea why. So, I’m just going to hold my broken heart and watch it self-combust until the point it says, "Yes, I’m done now. Let’s go back to the land of the living, shall we?"

A Cinematic Space Odyssey with Heart

Ryan Gosling is a man who simply refuses to age, and he takes on stellar scripts one after the other—Project Hail Mary being no different. His onscreen hesitancy to go into space, his deep bond with the alien he names "Rocky," and finally, the pure joy on his face as he became a teacher on Rocky’s home planet were all powerfully felt.

What made the movie even more special was my seven-year-old keenly following scene after scene, asking questions and fully engaging with the story. His sharp mind instantly reminded me of his late father's, and I shed a tear or two of pride.

People can be completely unpredictable, not just onscreen, but in real life too. Always expect the unexpected and, most importantly, expect nothing from anyone—even if they promise you the moon. The hurt might momentarily leave you feeling messed up, but there is usually some unforeseen reason it didn't work out. Years later, when you look back on a connection that failed, you will likely thank the universe that it didn't.

Therefore, much like Ryan Gosling’s character, Dr. Grace, let's fight the good fight and try to save the world without getting overly attached or expecting too much from people. It is the only way to stay sane and keep moving forward.

Image source - https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Project_Hail_Mary_%28film%29

Inside the Pressure Cooker: A Story of Grief, Overwork, and Sambar Vegetables

Grief and overwork go hand in hand. I say this with utter confidence because that is exactly how I have been living my life for the past five years. The notion of slowing down and trying to achieve a work-life balance is a joke to me; there is only work, and life just drags along parallel to it.

My first true jolt came in the summer of 2023—or was it 2024? I fail to remember now. I was hospitalised for severe breathlessness. The problem is that I have always loved my work. Across different organisations, I have poured so much of myself into my career that I have had nothing left to pour into myself or anyone else.As I lay on that hospital bed, looking at the petrified face of my four-year-old son, reality hit me. I realised I needed to prioritise him over any other passion or interest, starting with my career. Looking into his scared little eyes, I swore to myself that I would slow down.

Fast forward to right now: I do not think I actually have slowed down. While I have not been hospitalised for breathlessness again, my PCOD is completely out of control. My quarterly scans and blood tests happen like clockwork. Of course, it is all stress-induced.

My son’s life is equally stressful. At just seven years old, he faces monthly tests and daily homework. Our household has become a pressure cooker of daily, monthly, and yearly ambitions. He and I are like a medley of sambar vegetables—carrots, potatoes, onions, brinjal, and drumsticks—bubbling furiously next to each other inside the pot. We have not found our calming idli or dosa yet (pun fully intended, wink wink).

Because of this, I sadly feel like I have failed as a mother. My son has grown up watching a high-cortisol mother, and he has mirrored that exact trait. At this point, I am ready to try anything with him to blow off some steam and completely forget about work.

Our options are down to three choices:

A)Drowning ourselves in a swimming pool overflowing with hot chocolate (How many years have I thrown this wish out into the world? Do you even exist, Mr. Willy Wonka?).

B)Going to meditation classes (Cue the sniggering; two absolute chatterboxes going to meditation? Good luck to us and the rest of the class).

C)Enrolling in Mixed Martial Arts (MMA) to punch the life out of a punching bag, or whatever it is they do there.

And that is my story of overcoming grief—truth be told, I probably never did.

My Life's Greatest Creation: The Joy of Watching My Son Grow

You know your child is growing up to be their own strong, opinionated individual by the number of birthday party invitations they receive. It fills my heart with pride and joy to listen to the names of my son's best friends—numbers one, two, and three—as well as friends from higher classes and other sections. 

For the time being, his mouth flaps as much as mine, and he has managed to wrangle his way into the good books of some of his teachers. As I tell him every day: a happy teacher equals a happy school life, so always keep your teacher happy and listen to their words as if they were written in stone. 

So far, so good. Other than his language teachers, who have absolutely had it with him and his terrible handwriting, the others seem to adore him and call him "chella kutty." My cup seems fuller than full on those days.

More than your own success, it is the success of your child that fills you with utter satisfaction. All my awards, promotions, and literary achievements pale in comparison to my son's everyday joy in school with his friends and teachers. 

I love all his friends as much as I love him, and now I understand why my mother loved some of my friends too. It is because these children stand up for my son, are fiercely protective of him, and love him with all their hearts. Any little person who loves my son has all my love too. I consider them my children as well.

I highly recommend being a parent at some point in your life, even if you lose all your hair, your sleep, and your peace of mind. They are not just your legacy in the world; they are the better versions of you that go out and conquer. 

Trust me when I say that when you watch them grow and achieve things, your chest bursts with so much pride that you will end up crying happy tears of joy and experiencing feelings you never knew existed. They are a part of you, yet they are their own person. It is a hard act of holding on and letting go, but as a parent, letting go is an absolute must. 

Watch them spread their wings, make blunders, rectify those mistakes, and ultimately grow into sensible human beings. My son is my life's greatest creation. I have no idea what I would have done without him. He is the air that I breathe, and every stone that I am building belongs to him.

The Heartbreak and Healing of Female Friendships

It was all the female friendships that I cultivated over the years, starting from school right until my post-marriage years, that made me understand that I'm a bundle of mush. I really pour and pour into relationships, specifically female friendships, and when it's not reciprocated, it has broken my heart time and time again. That was the beginning of my trust wounds with women across age groups, starting from when I was 10 years old until 35.

I've seen my school friends drift away, my college friends leave, and finally, a really close friend of almost two decades vanish into oblivion the moment my husband passed away. These are women who swapped clothes with me, saw me grow from a rebellious teen to a rebellious mom, and saw me become a widow. So, it's just hard when one day they decide to stop talking to you. I remember all their faces, names, and every childhood memory so well that it breaks my heart. I've tried my best to revive these friendships, but to no avail.

As the universe and my Instagram feed tell me every day, "Don't chase." We should only give out as much as we receive; otherwise, you'll end up crying on most school nights, like I did as a teenager. Female friendships have broken my heart almost as much as my husband's death. It's so painful. I can't breathe, I can't sleep, and the tears don't stop. It's horrible.

Perhaps I have walls put up now. Or maybe not, because luckily, I am still blessed to have some great women around me and my child who give us a lot of love and affection. So, my hope and faith in female friendships continue despite the horrible, abrupt friendship breakups I've experienced over the years. Women truly can be your best friends or your worst enemies. Trust me when I say you have zero control over the outcome. All you can do is be your loving self and step back to see if it's reciprocated. If it is, you have a winner at hand. If not, simply walk away. Sigh! Female friendships are the best, if you can make them work.