Parle-G, Professionalism, and the Team That Let Me Be

Connecting with my own teams across organisations for the past 16+ years has never been a problem. I love people and can strike up a conversation about anything—from their hairbands right up to who their favourite parent at home is. I'm that nosey little Indian aunty on trains who will offer you a Parle-G biscuit in exchange for your entire life story. 

As I stand on the brink of returning to the office after close to two years of remote working, I can't help but think about the last team I worked with in person until November 2024. Let me tell you why this team was so special to me. Of course, they are gems of people—that's a given—otherwise, why would I write about them over and over again like a rabid person? No, the fact that they are nice is not why I think about them so often. 

I think about them because this was the bunch of men and women who accepted a grieving widow's heart without dispensing too much life gyaan and unsolicited advice. I could be loud, noisy, sad, cranky, aggressive, and a whole list of other action verbs, and this team would just let me be. 

I still remember the warm, day-long farewell they threw for me with all my favourite foods—butter chicken, cheesecake, and Indian sweets. They also framed a picture of all of us and handed it to me on my last day. It is only natural that I can never forget this bunch of beautiful souls. 

Thank you, Corporate Brand and Communications team, for accepting me just as I was. Now, if this isn't a love story made in corporate heaven, I'm not sure what is. To the most understanding and empathetic team in the world: I miss you, and I think of you at least once a week.

The Death of Compromise

Consistency, stability, and matching words with actions—every organization and human being must do this for you to have peace of mind. If they do not, eject and move on for your own sanity. The days of waiting around for a human being and putting up with all his eccentricities died the day my husband did. That woman is dead, along with her husband. The person who emerged after watching him go up in flames and floating his ashes away inside an insignificant tank is no longer a doormat. 

I choose to never be a doormat of a partner to another human being again. I choose to be an equal partner whose life and opinions matter, rather than someone who is expected to "adjust" and "compromise"—something women have been trained to do for centuries. But here's the deal: women are equal to men, and they always have been. Try enduring periods month after month, enduring childbirth, and juggling a home, aging parents, a child, and work all at the same time. Let that sink in for a moment, and tell me honestly: what part of the life she is leading makes you want to tell her to "compromise and adjust"? 

I love attending and listening to the success stories of female entrepreneurs and professionals. For centuries, women have suffered under the narrow-minded thinking of patriarchy, and it finally looks like it is our time to shine. So, let's get out there and do the best we can despite all the odds. Here's to never having to "adjust and compromise" ever again. Let us never shrink ourselves for another human being or an organization. Chin up, and fulfill all your wildest dreams!

The Cost of His Ambition

They say you shouldn't speak evil of the dead because they are dead and no longer have the power to narrate their side of the story. But if the dead person is someone you grew up with, shared a life with, and had an entire human being with, I think that dead person owes the other all the venting she has inside her. 

For someone who was so intelligent on paper, until this day my life's greatest mystery will be trying to understand how he was so stupid in real life. How could he have chosen work over and over again every single day for as long as he lived over his own family? How? How could he have died after a pitch meeting? How could he have died in the arms of colleagues and not mine? How exactly did that IIT Bombay Dual Degree holder in Mechanical Engineering let this happen to him, our son, and me?

I was so angry and disappointed with him for years after he died. He wasn't with me in the hospital during my delivery, he didn't stay at home while I carried our son, he missed our son's first birthday, and he missed most of our wedding anniversaries. Every expensive cake and roses he sent on a yearly basis didn't cut his presence. 

My late husband has taught me the biggest life lesson—wealth and material things don't matter, human life does. We have two houses in Bombay. Do you know who lives inside them now? Cobwebs and darkness—the exact same thing that lives in my brain now, trying to figure out the purpose of my late husband's life. What was his purpose? To widow a woman at 34 with a 2-year-old? Slow claps for his soul in heaven or whichever godforsaken place he's chosen to go.

Whenever I saw bosses at work flip from party mode to work mode in ten seconds, attending meetings after a whole night of partying, I would look at my colleague and say, "Oh look! That's how my husband died at 35." 

I remember the faces of all his bosses and colleagues, and honestly, they disappoint too. That entire organization and my husband reek of slime. Men in coats—I didn't trust them for a very, very long time, until I had to re-don one four months after he passed and I realized not all suits are evil; I'm not evil. 

I'm a mother first, a corporate worker next—look at the order of my priorities. I've shut down from work on all the days my child and parents have fallen sick. Family first, always. These are the values I've grown up watching. So people choosing work over family and humans simply don't impress me. Just no.

It was only when I chose to forgive him that I found peace, and I'm no longer haunted by his traumatized ghost who knows he's done our family wrong. For all the heartbreak he made me endure, I know he loved me too—so much that I've never found another like him, until now. 

I forgive you, Poopie. I know you're at peace because I finally am.

The Vicious Cycle of Trauma Dumping

We all trauma dump on friends and family about the million life issues we face. For example, the very first sentence I uttered to my mother yesterday when she called was, "Mumma, I'm very cranky today. I'm not coming home. But what is there to eat?" Based on her answer, I selfishly decided to walk up to my parents' house anyway. Everyone has trauma and a certain trauma tolerance level. Some people survive our venting, and some do not. Family members, unfortunately, are stuck with it. 

As another example, I get drunk on just one glass of a cocktail. My brother and sister-in-law then look super worried and stuff every carb in the world down my throat to absorb the alcohol. I am a very sloppy drinker because I rarely drink. During those "once in a blue moon" occasions when I do sip a cocktail, all the sadness in the world rushes to my brain. Suddenly, I become the world's unluckiest woman. It is a horrible cycle of self-pity and dramatic, doomsday thinking: "My life is over now. What else is left to do?" 

Meanwhile, my son trauma dumps on me from morning to night. I have realized that mothers are often treated like emotional punching bags. Children dump their burdens, and we just have to let them. I listen to all his little big life problems and nod along. If I offer suggestions, I am suddenly the worst person in the world. But if I simply empathize, all is well in his world. 

I am not sure if it is right or wrong to dump our trauma on other humans. I admit to doing this with family and really close friends. I have rubbed my scars onto them, and perhaps I shouldn't have. Yet, breaking down occasionally in front of my sister with big, fat tears is quite frankly the best therapy in the world. 

Trauma dumping: what is your take on whether we should or shouldn't do it? Let me know in the comments below!

From the Frontlines of 1971 to the Battles of Life: My Rock, My Dad

My father is a 1971 war veteran from the 4th Gorkha Rifles. He was barely 21 when he fought in the war and lost many of his coursemates right in front of his eyes. The 4th Gorkha Rifles played a key role on the Western Front, maintaining an unbreakable line of defense in Jammu & Kashmir. My uncle was also part of the Air Force during that same war. 

Even now, my 75-year-old father still wakes up with jitters in the middle of the night, remembering the blood and the casualties. To me, he is a real-life superhero—every character created by the DC and Marvel universes combined. 

When I lost my husband five years ago, he showed the same grit and determination as that 21-year-old soldier who brought victory to our nation in the 70s. When people ask me how I was able to move on—navigating the tears and heartbreak—I point to my father. He has guided and pushed me every step of the way, giving me the courage to be a soldier in my own life. To look fear in the face and never back down is what my dad has taught me, and continues to teach me. 

From 6 AM wake-up calls for exercise to an occasional rap on my knuckles to do my math homework properly, Daddy truly is the hero of my life. He is rock-solid, dependable, and someone you can trust with your life and your children's lives. He is the best daddy and grandfather anyone could ever ask for. Fathers generally speak less, but mine talks a mile a minute and has a glitter in his eyes every time any of us do something worthwhile. He pushes me to be a better woman, mother, and human being. We love you, Daddy!

Blastu Blastu! Thalapathy Kacheri Indeed: Why Jana Nayagan Finally Made Me Understand the Vijay Hype

To be celebrated as such a loved actor and now a politician—I suppose this is any human being's dream. What a banger of a final movie the Chief Minister of Tamil Nadu, Joseph Vijay, has made! I could never understand what his hype was right from my D.A.V. days; all the little girls in my class were crazy about this lanky, hyper-dancing dude. However, I think I have finally understood the hype after watching Jana Nayagan. 

The movie had every single emotion that struck a chord with me. He plays the role of a single dad to a girl he is not even related to, a saviour of the state, and a man who empowers women. He walks into a school and openly educates every child—including myself, watching the movie from the comfort of my sofa—about sexual abuse. Add the use of special effects in the form of a robot army, and my mind was blown so many times over during the course of those two-plus hours. 

I suddenly found myself wanting to work alongside him and join his political party as a communications advisor. I cried when the girl he raised acknowledged him as the father who might not have given birth to her but raised her anyway. I also got goosebumps each time he slammed a patriarchal man in the movie who disrespected women by saying, "Women should just sit at home and make babies." 

What a movie! What a movie! I am so sad I didn't catch it on the big screen—there goes my last chance to catch Thalapathy in theatres. I absolutely loved that one scene where a framed portrait of the late actor-politician M.G. Ramachandran (MGR) comes alive, calls out to Vijay's character, Thalapathy Vetri Kondan, as "Thanga Thalapathy," and drops a black leather whip into his hands to fight the corrupt villains (played by Prakash Raj in that particular sequence). 

If I had any sadness about this movie, it was seeing my childhood crush Bobby Deol turned into a villain. From his long-haired "Soldier Soldier meethi baate bolkar, dil ko chura legaya" days, he has suddenly turned into the evil, power-hungry John Himmler after starting out as DCP Amrish Poojari. 

Leaving that one sadness of mine aside, I absolutely loved everything about Jana Nayagan—from the women empowerment scenes to the robot army sequences, and the entire single-dad aspect. What an emotional rollercoaster this film is. I cried, I laughed, I clapped, and I didn't want it to end. Blastu blastu! Thalapathy kacheri indeed!

A Letter to Heaven: Naughty 40 and Five Years of Missing You

My Dearest Poopie, 

Five years since you've been gone. A lot has changed in this time. Your miniature is not so mini anymore. I've had multiple hair colour changes, two tattoos, and I'm going for the third one this year—all around Durga Puja time. 

Sometimes I have morbid thoughts, like you coming back into my life as a half-alive zombie, demanding to know why I'm living in Chennai now and why I let our son eat Twix bars first thing in the morning on weekends. He talks a lot, our little one. He takes after me, obviously, but looks just like you. Unfortunately, he doesn't remember you at all, or even the concept of a father. He's a bold one—he befriends anyone and comes out with really controversial one-liners. Still, he is the love of my life now. Sorry, Poopie, that role was taken by him the minute he was born—you already know that. But I promise I'll let him marry whoever he wants, and I will not be an overbearing mommy. 

I miss you whenever I eat a cheesecake from Starbucks or whenever I find myself making big life decisions, which has been quite a few in the last five years. I could never find that song you composed for me after you passed. I don't even remember how "Poopie Monster" sounds now. So how will people believe me when I say a man composed a song for me and made it sound cheeky? 

How do you feel about turning naughty forty in heaven in less than three months? I'm excited for you, and I'm excited for me too. Although, I never needed to turn forty just to become naughty; I was born naughty—again, a fact that you already know. I hope heaven has all the limited-edition brands of guitars, monitors, speakers, and all those shiny buttons you kept tapping for you to create more disturbing, scary music. 

Until we meet again. 

Love,

Your Poopie

The Ultimate Payasam Coma: Confessions of an Onam Feast Enthusiast

It's almost Onam Sadya time, boys and girls! I'm excited to pig out and sleep already, thanks to my vegetarian and payasam-laden feast. My sadya is already pre-ordered for the year, and I can't wait to jump into a cab and bring it back home. 

I am already internally calculating all the palada payasam I will overeat, so I must buy a minimum of ten extra glasses to drink again when I wake up post my Sadya-induced siesta. 

Onam is the only time of the year that I actually eat a full vegetarian meal and don't count my carb- and sugar-induced calorie intake. All is forgiven until I stand on the weighing scale the next morning and realize I weigh the exact same kilos as a hippo. Then I'll be sad, but until the next morning hits, let me feast, feast, feast! 

Growing up, Onam in Kerala meant dressing up and visiting my cousin's grandmother, who would lay out a feast of not just the Sadya but also fried chicken, fish, prawns, and every imaginable meat possible. Technically, that was a cheat Onam because it wasn't purely vegetarian. 

But the texture of meat against all those vegetables, coconut oil-fried pappadams, and parippu—oh man, oh man, that was an emotion that just can't be described. If I had died and gone to heaven or hell after any of those meals, I would have died a very satiated and happy soul who would definitely not have taken rebirth. 

On that note, Hridayam niranja Onashamsakal! May your sadya leaf never dry up, and may you drink liters and liters of payasam this Onam!

A Crash, A Mountain, and A Memory: My 2009 Love Story

The year was 2009. I was an adventurous Scooty Pep rider, an aspiring postgraduate student, and an ex-Amazonian.

On the morning of 9th February 2009—coincidentally my wedding day in 2014 as well—I had a horrible bike crash. Scooty Peps are unstable machines; the tyres are too small to hold the weight of the vehicle and, perhaps, the rider.

I was riding down that familiar road leading to Ascendas where Fitness One used to be back in 2009. My relationship with Ascendas goes way back—I am an ex-Amazonian from when the Amazon offices were still inside Ascendas, an ex-Fitness One member, and an ex-Olamite/Mindsprinter (the offices for that last organisation are still in Ascendas).

Coming back to that fateful morning, everything broke: my right hand, my right leg, and my soul. There was blood everywhere and lots of screaming—from my end, of course. The rest of the day went by in a blur of surgery and anaesthesia.

Exactly a month later, my flat-broke boyfriend, who was interning at a company in Bangalore, drove down to visit a very broken me. I had a sticky head and we were both stinky—I couldn't bathe as long as I had the pin stuck in my right shoulder, and he just had poor hygiene.

My parents were shocked to see this round man. A million questions followed: "Who is he?", "How did you meet?", "We don't approve."

The rest is history, along with a baby boy named Riaan.The point of this story is, I know what a man in love looks like. And I know what a woman in love looks like as well. Mountains are moved by both people, and if there is not even an intention for that mountain to be moved, it is best to move on very quickly just to save time and heartache.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is my eons-ago beautiful love story, that went up in smoke—quite literally—five years ago.

Love—what a beautiful experience indeed!

Prioritizing Life Over the Laptop: A Lesson in Work-Life Balance

You cannot choose a laptop over people, or work over life. I know two people who did: one died, and the other was hospitalized. The former was my late husband, and the latter was me. He lived by the laptop and died by the laptop. I pretended to be Xena the Warrior Princess for about two years and tried my best to follow in his footsteps, only to end up hospitalized for breathlessness. It is simply not worth it. 

The Monday-through-Friday grind is important—I am not saying it isn't. It gives us a comfortable lifestyle, fills our brains with knowledge, and makes us feel important for those few hours. However, if you do not cut off beyond that time, you are missing out on this big, beautiful world created for us. This world is filled with hot chocolate, ice cream, plants, wonderful people, and an endless list of joys. 

Living is the part that truly matters. You must live. Your work will replace you in less than a week after you pass away; I closely witnessed this with my husband, who was a very senior, top-of-the-pyramid management consultant. However, you cannot be replaced at home. You are somebody’s something, so give that time and presence to the people who value you. Your organization, on the other hand, values you only as long as you bring value to the table in terms of deliverables. The day your performance drops, you will be dropped, or at least threatened with it. Conversely, if you slip up at home, you will still have an entire army that might be annoyed with you for half an hour, but will then bring you all your favorite food and drinks anyway. 

Choose wisely. Choose balance and attain inner peace like the Buddha. Remember to choose human beings, not laptops. Human beings will love you; laptops will only give you migraines and reading glasses.

An Epic Love Story or a Horror Film: The Power of Devotion

The relationship between a man and a woman is so profound that the two can either create magic or blow everything up in smoke. They have the choice to build a beautiful family together, or burn everything—including themselves—in their wake. 

Reflecting on my own life, the most soul-satisfying relationship I ever had was with my late husband back when he was still my boyfriend. I have never met anyone like him since, (including him) after we got married. But having another human being who just gets you, understands you, and always stands in your corner—now, that is a lifetime dopamine hit you never want to come down from. When you have one devoted, loving partner by your side, you suddenly feel like you can go out into the world and achieve absolutely anything. I haven't had that for the past five years, and I treasure the memory of it now more than ever. If you have a loving partner who chooses you every single day, despite every obstacle life throws your way, hang on to that person. What you have right there is everything. 

I think I was always born to be a wife and a mother. I cannot imagine how I would have functioned without those responsibilities in my life. Of course, I had to forgo the wifely duties five years ago, but you get my drift. I am the kind of girl you take home to your parents and introduce to your entire friend circle—and before you know it, I will be at the center of it all, slowly and steadily winning all their loyalty. 

Perhaps I am this dependable because I come from a family of human Banyan trees: suffocatingly loving and deeply empowering. They have given me the courage to conquer hearts across the board. I don't fear love; what I fear is flakiness. I can sniff it a mile away, and the moment I do, I will walk away and never say hello again. It is that simple. 

A relationship between a man and a woman can go one of two ways. It can either be an epic love story written into books, shot as movies, and sung in melodies, or it can be a horror story too terrifying to feature even in R.L. Stine's "Goosebumps".

The Highways Department: Raising My One and Only

As I looked at my little boy's defiant face yesterday evening after letting him have it for yet another misdemeanor, I saw a little man's face. My almost 8-year-old boy is growing up to be stubborn and pig-headed. It is his way or the highway, so by this logic, our house is probably the highways department now. 

I remember one of the very first P.T.A. meetings I had with his L.K.G. class teacher. She asked me, "Oh, almost eight years of marriage and only one child?" I wish I could catch hold of her now and say, "My one and only is wearing me down. So yes, I truly am done in the baby-making department for this life. Perhaps in the next life, when I have a husband who doesn't abruptly die on me, I can be Queen Gandhari, reproducing 100 miniatures of me and calling them Kauravas. I don't see a King Dhritarashtra in sight right now." 

His baby ego takes a hit each time I give him a shelling, and he knows very well why he is at the receiving end. But he must rebel anyway, because that is exactly what I did with my parents as a teenager. It looks like his teenage genes kicked in a whole decade early. God bless my soul at this point and send reinforcements. Throwing hot chocolate at my front door would be a good idea to begin with, and if I need anything else, I will let you know. 

At present, he is grunting and groaning next to me in bed, ordering me to stop writing: "Mumma, you can do all this in the morning, not at night." Well, technically 5:20 AM is still night for a little person, so his current request is valid. 

Where do the years go, really? While I am glad he is no longer the electricity socket explorer and plant destroyer, this new human who has replaced the older version is a challenge. Each year is a challenge. I can almost hear a narrator in the background—similar to the Jumanji narrator's voice—saying, "Congratulations! You have officially crossed the toddler years. Welcome to Level 3: the school-going years. More homework, more tantrums, and more strange food requests. What joy!" 

Ready to collapse now. Goodnight and good morning, everybody.

Lessons from a Unicorn: Love, Light, and Respect

I never got a chance to say goodbye to my partner and husband of close to 13 years. One minute he was alive, and the next he wasn't. My only regret in life, if any, is that I wasn't with him during his final moments. He apparently held his head in pain and told his colleagues, "I want to go home," just before he collapsed and passed away. It is something that will haunt me forever. He wanted to come home to our son and me, but he never could. 

Because of this, I understand the bittersweet importance of goodbyes. Had I known he was about to pass away, I would have probably just hugged him and said, "Thank you for this life. I'm so glad I got to do it all with you." Instead, I took his warm, lifeless body back to our Powai home on a late Monday evening. 

I don't burn bridges—whether it's with a person or an organization. I respect everyone, even if things don't always go as planned. Respect is important because it shows you cared about that human being, or about the company that decided to hire you. I only think of all the people and organizations that have come and gone in my life (especially in the past five years) with love and light. 

Everyone suffers, and everyone has a tragic story of their own. The least we can do is be kind. Life has more shades of grey than black and white, and as long as we accept and acknowledge this, all will be fine. Remember—love, light, and respect—these are the three things that you must spread in abundance for the people of the past, present, and future. Like I've written a million times already, I love love. All these emotions are filled with love. So here I go, a delusional little Unicorn with plenty of love to give to all those asking for it.

Movie Magic, Breadcrumbs, and True Believers

I grew up watching impossible love stories—Beauty and the Beast, 50 First Dates, Soldier, Notting Hill, and Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge. In most of these movies, the men always delivered. The women were simply allowed to be themselves: chatty, outspoken, cool, successful, pretty, and a never-ending list of other positive adjectives. 

Now, I am not quite sure who I have grown up into. Am I Preeti Singh from Soldier, Belle from Beauty and the Beast, or Anna Scott from Notting Hill? Perhaps I am Anna Scott. I was, in fact, just a girl standing in front of a boy, asking him to love her. Luckily for me, the very first boy I met in my life delivered. 

Fast forward to the present, exactly two decades later with very different life circumstances, and love stories apparently no longer exist. Instead, there is just a bunch of lonely 40-year-olds who think they will live forever. They are living out some personal social experiment, hoping the breadcrumbs they throw out will sustain an impossible fantasy. 

Just no! Step up or step away, sirs or ma'ams. Give people credit for the basic intelligence they bring to the table. 

In the meantime, I am still a believer in impossible love stories because I have already lived one out. I love love. I am a gigantic mushball of chocolate-covered hearts—always was and always will be.

The Myth of Going with the Flow at Forty

I haven't had a dramatic breakup in life... yet! For me, human beings are valuable creatures. I don't treat them like underwear, changing them every five to six hours. Nope, that is not my style, never was, and never will be. 

However, over the last three years, I've stumbled across some "rowdy pasanga," for lack of a better word, and I'm so happy I'm single. What a time to try and find someone to marry—it's a bloodbath of emotional unavailability out there. I quickly open the front door and escort the aforementioned "rowdy pasanga" out of my life, hoping they do not wander into anyone else's. 

Do you want to die alone or do you not? It's a simple question with an even simpler answer. Once you're clear about that, then—and only then—should you speak to other humans. In the meantime, I highly recommend you keep your personal social experiments to yourself. 

Frankly, if you are telling another human at 40 that you want to "go with the flow," what flow are you talking about? The flow into an old age home where you'll die alone, childless, and partnerless? We're 40, not 20. We have another 20 years to live, maybe 30. 

Now, I won't die alone even with a dead husband, because I've specifically instructed my son to liquefy brownies and pour them into my IV tubes, alongside his wife and kids. He agreed on the single condition that I go on bumper car rides with him every Sunday for the rest of his life. I quickly agreed because it was a steal of a deal. 

Coming back to the topic at hand: emotional unavailability. You're not Batman. You're just a man or a woman (depending on who is reading this). There are only so many places on the globe you can travel to. Your parents will eventually leave before you, and your siblings will be too busy leading their own lives, even if they want to participate actively in yours. So, good luck with all that emotional unavailability. May your soul rest in peace. My husband, who passed away five years ago, is definitely more alive than you are at this point.

The Chronicle of a Lifelong Ice Cream Addict

If I had to describe myself in one sentence, it would be this: terrorizing the lives of ice cream servers since 1989. To be exact, my love affair started when I turned two and discovered both the vocabulary of screaming and the sheer joy of frozen desserts. Before that, around 1987, I was—in my son’s words—"just a little bean," or in my own words, a sleeping blob. 

Back then, I ate like a wild animal. My mother, overwhelmed by the chaotic mess, resorted to stuffing cone ice creams inside drinking glasses. Eating was a total annihilation of dairy; picture a lion lunging for a hippo or a zebra in the jungle, only for the prey to explode all over the predator's face. That was me at two years old—except covered in ice cream instead of mud. 

Decades later, ice cream still excites me and terrorizes every Ibaco server in Chennai. My son and I routinely hound the poor staff behind the counter, demanding custom scoops paired with exactly 99 toppings. Not 100, mind you, because we are civilized humans who leave a little something for the other customers. From Pistachio and Sea Salt Caramel Pecan to Chocolate Orange, Belgian Chocolate, and Almond Crunch, the flavor combinations are infinite. 

My mouth is watering just thinking about it. I cannot wait to hit Ibaco this weekend for the millionth time to get lost in a world of sugary goodness. Once an ice cream lover, always an ice cream lover. This beautiful love story started when I was two, and I never want it to end. Is there anything better in this world than ice cream? Absolutely not! Ice cream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream!

Turning 40, Guarding Peace, and the Art of the Exit Button

I’m turning 40 next January, and my mother is convinced I’m not middle-aged yet. She thinks she is middle-aged at 71. How cute is this lady? She is way cuter than my wobbly, creaky knees and broken back, for sure—especially after a 30-minute bumpy car ride inside Timezone with my son. 

Each time I tell her a new maniacal plan of mine—which includes more hair colours, tattoos, or a big, fat, loud-looking automobile with my name written all over the backdoor (remember Kunal Kemmu’s Red Thar in "Single Papa")—she tells me, "No, no, no." It’s so cute that she still assumes I’ll listen to her, or anyone else for that matter. 

But as a wise man once told me, "Respect your parents, even if you don't agree with them. Don't have silly squabbles with them, and ensure you have their blessings in life always. Because when you do, people like me will also get blessed by them indirectly." It is very strange logic, but I agree. He also went on to tell me, "This whole 'rebel without a cause' thing was cute at 16. You're not 16. I hope you remember that." 

I unfortunately do. And if I forget, my aching shoulder blades and every other creaky bone in my body remind me. 

For me, the mid-life crisis—or rather, existential crisis—has been very real from the moment my son was born and when my husband passed away. To live a whole life, not just be a mother and a corporate slave: what do I really love doing? What do I want from life? Exploring the "I" has taken prominence, especially in the last five years. 

In that process, my ability to sniff out bullshit from people and situations has become super high. I simply exit when I notice toxic patterns, and I don't ask for explanations. This is relevant across organizations and the people I’ve come across. My life is already a drama, moving from one dramatic scene to the next, with curtains closing and opening from 6:00 AM to 9:00 PM. Now, in the middle of all that chaos, you can either bring me peace and calm, or if you choose to bring further drama, I’ll simply press the exit button. No questions asked, no explanations needed. 

I’ve always chosen to believe actions over words. The only people I live for right now are family and perhaps some very close friends. Everyone and everything else is just a passing fancy, I suppose, if you don’t come through. 

Peace!

Sunday Night Blues

The weekend flew by too fast,

Because we were having too much of a blast,

A blur of swimming, sleeping, and eating,

That went on repeating,

For so blissfully long,

As much as the drool that covered my entire face, each time I woke up from power naps that went on for far too long, 

Why do the weekends fly by so fast?

Why can't good things actually last?

I'm truly feeling the blues this Sunday,

And I just don't want to wake up to yet another Monday,

Mentally scheduling activities for the next weekend already,

For I'm just not ready,

To trudge into yet another Monday,

I'm so sad to reach the end of a Sunday,

The weekend flew by too fast,

Because we were having too much of a blast.

The Evolution of Chennai: From the Principal’s Office to the Open Mic

I have developed a sudden, deep respect and love for the conservative city I grew up in. Apparently, an entire two decades later, I can finally write and openly tell the questionable jokes that used to land me straight in the principal's office with my parents on standby. Today, I crack those same jokes openly and get applauded. What a beautiful time to be alive in Chennai! 

From arts and business networking to fitness, the city is burgeoning with incredible in-person events, fresh ideas, and super-smart people bringing them to life. 

I am so pumped up this morning because last night I attended an event called "Open Mic... Permission to be Myself." That is exactly what I did. Give me a platform and an audience, and I am excited. Give me an audience and a platform where I am told to be completely myself, and my excitement literally has excitement! I simply could not wait to hit the stage. 

The audience was wonderful, Backyard was a cozy venue, and our host, Sindhu Shankar, was incredibly warm and welcoming. The icing on the cake was watching my little boy's eyes light up every time I cracked a joke. I also took comfort in knowing that two women I deeply admire and respect—Devyani (Agu's mom and my confidante of close to 4 years) and Preethi (my super-smart lawyer, solo traveller, and writer friend)—were in the audience laughing along. 

My heart is full. I had a wonderful evening and am looking forward to participating in many more exciting, invigorating events like this!

A Tribute to the Leaders Who Shaped Me

I just rewatched Devil Wears Prada 2 on Hotstar, and it made me realise where women truly create and live out their best love stories: in boardrooms, in offices, during client pitches, and in the midst of crazy brand launches. These are times when days blur into nights and we work closely alongside inspirational women leaders who bring out the absolute best in us. 

Of course, all of that comes with a cost, and both sides understand this. Work takes precedence over matters at home, and we see very little of our children, especially during such high-pressure periods. Because we understand the heavy cost of this time spent away from our little ones, it is only natural that we simply put our heads down and give it our absolute best. 

The work that emerges from these intense times has been phenomenal. The output and that core team are spoken about for years on end, long after people have left the organisation. I am blessed to have worked with such inspirational women leaders—exactly two of them during the course of my communications career. They have shaped me as a person and subconsciously showed me how to conduct myself in the workplace. These are some of the best love stories of my life: my women bosses and me. 

I am sure they are still killing it out there in the corporate world, wherever they are with their current teams and assignments. I hope the Account Executive you hired in 2014 and the Deputy Manager of Corporate Brand and Communications you so warmly welcomed in 2022 are still making you proud, my dearest Mary and Shina. You both made the P.R. and Corporate Communications world more bearable for me just by being yourselves. 

From your forever cheerleader for life,

A very grateful, hopefully more politically correct communications professional.

Still 21 in the Head: A Journey from the Corporate Cage to Rocking Concerts

"But you're not 21 years old, Gayatri," replied my scandalised friend of 18 years when I emotionally shared my travel and concert-catching plans. Watching me chuckle, he turned to my unbothered son, who was playing with the giant toy he had gifted him. "Riaan, please control your mother." 

My weekends are lived like I'll die tomorrow, but my weekdays feel like a golden cage I can't escape from for at least the next 20 years. That last bit is probably relatable to anyone slowly and steadily slogging it out in the corporate world, hoping to settle down their children and retire as soon as possible. 

Honestly, watching a 35-year-old—who was reaching the peak of his career, leading a happy, fulfilled married life (courtesy of me, of course; I was a bloody good wife), and amassing all the material wealth in the world—suddenly drop dead on one fine sunny afternoon changed me irrevocably. 

Now, my life is all about accumulating tattoos, expanding my horizons with hair colour, and submerging myself in experiences I would have never dreamt of. This includes travelling overseas with my son and standing in the middle of a 2,000-person concert crowd. The last time I did that was with my late husband—both as an audience member and as his disinterested wife while he played some very disturbing riffs with his multiple bands on stage. 

So, that's me, ladies and gentlemen. I'm not 40 yet (still clinging to the last few months of my 30s), but I'm still 21 in the head. Just go live. In my case, with and without a husband. Peace!

Undefeated by Death

I am so glad that the dead are not buried in beautiful graves according to our customs. If they were, unlike Peter Parker who only visited Aunt May between work shifts, I might have permanently laid flat on my husband’s grave for days on end, until someone physically dragged me away. 

Actually, our customs are worse when you think about it. We watch them go up in flames, but not before untying a white thread from their toes while the priest tells you, "Now your earthly bonds with this man are over." This happens right after rubbing ghee all over him and feeling his rigor mortis-stiffened hands under yours. I pray no woman, man, or child ever has to experience what I did on December 7th, 2021, inside a very impersonal Bombay crematorium. 

A couple of days later, we received his ashes. Once again, I kept digging my hands into the pot to submerge them inside a very questionable-looking immersion tank, until my brother had to physically drag me away from both the pot and the tank. 

These scars are a permanent part of my mind and body. So when I say do not take time and people for granted, this is why. We do not have forever. We die alone, wanting to go back home but never reaching it, only to turn to ashes dumped into lakes or rivers. 

For a long time, hospital stretchers and hospital corners triggered me because that is where I first saw him—once again, lying in an impersonal corner, just waiting for me to take him home. On some days, I still feel like a waiting wife, expecting her husband to return home from some obscure part of the globe. On other days, I continue to drown myself in work and pretend all is well with the world. 

Grief doesn't leave you. It simply bubbles to the surface when you find yourself in situations where people disappoint you. Then you realize you have been through much worse and survived. This too shall pass. It certainly shall. 

Undefeated by death, mommy, and hating being called a widow—widow, out!

The Dettol of Disappointment: Finding Closure in Flakiness

Closure. It is something we always seek from people when things don’t go as expected. But here is the deal: life doesn’t give you closure, and death doesn’t either. So, how can you expect it from people? 

Simply consider their flakiness to be your closure. You cannot force people to treat you right or act a certain way. All you can do is be your wonderful self, and when your gestures are not reciprocated, simply move on. It will sting in the moment. It is similar to when an adult doused the open wound on your knee—the one you got from running too fast as a fat little girl with wobbly thighs, racing to jump into your grandfather’s car after school. 

But take that sting, just like the eight-year-old fat little champ you once were. Dettol solves every problem—even now. Douse your brain with the equivalent of Dettol. This could be comfort food or the people closest to you; choose your Dettol as soon as possible and move. 

People are flaky. The faster we accept this reality, the better. One day they love you, and the next they do not want to look at your face anymore. Accept the silence, do not reach out for answers, and move, move, move. Chop chop! You are not going to be alive for the next 100 years—30 at most if you are lucky. Choose people who choose you without hesitation, with enthusiastic love and suffocating affection. It is all or nothing. 

Ex-doormat, never a doormat ever again for the rest of my life, signing out!

The Mjölnir Matrix: Step Up or Step Away

Accept and don't expect—this has been my life's motto for the past five years. I certainly didn't expect my 35-year-old husband to drop dead on me one Monday evening, but I accepted it. Ever since, life has been a series of acceptances, because expecting leads to disappointment, and I fear my beautiful, hot chocolate and gajar halwa-eating heart may not be able to handle another one. 

I anticipate problems before they arise and eject myself from the situation, whether it is good or bad. Ever since I became part of death's collateral damage, I've decided to stop partaking in potential tragedies. Of course, I feel deeply for the people and situations I am with at the time. But if I sense I am being taken for granted—and those senses are highly heightened now—I simply leave. No explanations needed, and no questions asked. 

Worldly attachment to people and things simply leads to heartbreak. Therefore, do not attach until you see the lifeline being thrown back to you. It only takes common sense and basic intelligence to figure out who values you and who doesn't. The time for throwing myself into grand, dramatic gestures—like sacrificing my career or moving cities for a man—is frozen. Of course, this is a debatable topic. 

I am like Thor's hammer now—Mjölnir. My child and I will only fall into the hands of someone worthy; until then, it is a hard pass. I've seen too much of life and death to be a naive 20-year-old. If words don't match actions, once again, I simply leave—whether it is an organisation or a person. Leaving comes so naturally to me now; it isn't even scary. 

I suppose death does this to you. It gives you a sense of independence so strong that there is simply no going back. You have lived alone, played the role of two people all at once for one tiny human, and managed to sustain both yourself and that tiny human. Frankly, we've got this—monkey and I. So, you either step up or step away from every aspect of our lives. 

Uff! This piece of mine took a dark turn. I suppose I am dark yet light, similar to Enid Sinclair—the werewolf in me is dormant, yet begging to break free. Undefeated by death mommy and woman, out!

Friday, Freedom, and the Magic of Gajar Halwa

Friday, beautiful, beautiful Friday! It is the end of a murderous week of work and school, and the beginning of an exciting two-day break. I celebrate with gajar halwa every Friday evening, which is why I look like a well-rounded gajar on a weekly basis despite all the arduous workouts that I do. 

Ah, Friday! Doesn't the air just smell different? Moods are calmer, smiles are wider, and the promise of a glorious two-day break is what pushes everyone to close the week on a high note. Friday is my favourite day of the week—from morning to night. For my son, it's 2:45 pm on Fridays. He trudges into the house by 3:30 pm and flops onto his bed so hard, looking like a Greek crewman who fought under the leadership of Odysseus during the Trojan War and struggled just to stay alive during the tiresome and dangerous ten-year journey home to Ithaca. 

I am powered by "sugar-free" sugar all week long (although the sugar-freeness of that sugar is very questionable), which gives me artificial sweetness, goodness, and happiness through the weekdays. But the moment the first spoon of gajar halwa hits my mouth at 7:00 pm on a Friday, I feel all the tension in my body bubble to the surface. As adults, we suppress a lot of feelings throughout the week just to get the job done—both at home and in the office. 

Cheers to surviving yet another week, and cheers to that gajar halwa that I'll be gobbling down before the day closes. Harassed mommy and brain-fried corporate slave, signing out!

Jolted by Death, Bound by Love: Why We Talk About the Hard Things

Someone once said to me, "Riaan talks a lot about death and dying." Now, opinions are like farts, but this time I retorted as diplomatically as I could: "He was two years old when he witnessed death, so he's probably going to talk about it for the next twenty." 

If I'm almost forty and still haven't wrapped my head around not having a partner, my seven-year-old is obviously going to crack jokes about death. I am going to allow it until he fully gets it out of his system. In the meantime, if death, dying, widowhood, a fatherless home, and real-life issues trouble you, please keep a 100-mile radius from my son and me. We are vocal and hyperlocal. Cue the clapping for that rhyme! 

On a serious note, death jolted this household. To make matters worse, we are big talkers and highly opinionated. If you have one opinion, we have ten. The only person who gets to criticise my family has to go through me first. These are my monkeys and this is my circus. You have a problem with them? You talk to me. 

A fiercely protective mommy to the rescue, for life. Out!

The Privilege of Fitness: Why I'm Tired of Your Weight Loss Bragging

Yet another controversial piece of mine, but here goes nothing—I must call out this one category of despicable humans who think they've achieved everything in the world simply by being in shape. What do you want now? A gold medal for looking 20 at 50? No one's giving it to you, sirs or ma'ams. 

So you decided to take care of your health and made an active decision not to be a burden on your family and children by shaping up. So what? This is not an achievement that you brag about endlessly and rub in the faces of others. 

Now, if you work 17-to-18-hour shifts, take responsibility for aging parents at home, closely watch and manage the daily routines of a child or two, and still manage to lose weight? I will stand up and salute you. 

However, if you don't fall into this very specific category—if you just care about yourself and live like a little goldfish in a glass bowl with a makeup device bubbling oxygen for you (which basically means you're not even breathing on your own)—and then you lose weight and have the audacity to go around preaching to all and sundry that you lost 100 kilos, I will slap you with a metal chair so hard that even Thanos would wonder how that happened. 

Speaking as an ex-fat kid who is still "fat in the head," let me say very emphatically: keep your weight loss achievements to yourself. It's crass. Find a better hobby—read a book maybe, or read my blog—whatever catches your fancy. But whatever you do, do not, and I repeat, DO NOT brag about how you lost weight by starving, prioritizing your protein intake, and pumping iron. The rest of the world and I are not interested. 

Signed,

A mildly amused, but mostly peeved ex-fat kid, now an almost-shapely, almost-40-year-old mommy, out!

Chasing the Perfect Chennai Breakfast

I haven't gone on a single breakfast date that I have not actually enjoyed—ranging from Sangeetha to Ciclo, to those flashy, Instagram-influenced cafes. There is something unique about the crisp morning air mixed with the stifling, humid Chennai heat, and the confidence that morning calories burn fast. To begin the promise of a new day with burgeoning amounts of deep-fried food is just scrumptious. Just writing about this is making my mouth water. 

Most mornings, I feel like jolting my sleeping son awake and telling him, "Let’s make a quick dash for deep-fried carbs and then head our separate ways." But even as I process the idea, he slams me down like a sleeping Hulk Hogan, pinning me with one arm and grunting with his eyes firmly closed. 

I have always been a morning person. I love going to bed early and waking up even earlier—along with the owls and definitely before the crows. On most days, 5 AM is my wake-up time, without the alarm even ringing. There is so much time we humans waste just sleeping. Stop sleeping, start bouncing! 

Overexcited morning person, signing out!

My Life, My Bio: Owning Widowed and Single Motherhood

Someone I met three years ago told me, "You should probably consider removing 'single mom' and 'widowed at 34' from your Instagram profile. It’s very attention-seeking." 

I chuckled, continued sipping my sugary Lime Mint cooler from Fruit Shop on Greams Road in Besant Nagar, and never reached out to this "champion" ever again. 

Pray tell, how is being widowed and a single mother attention-seeking? To this day, I scratch my head at what he said. This happened during our first meeting, which, in hindsight, it is no wonder became our very last. 

Both of these life events have defined me, sharpened me, and heightened all my senses. So, of course, I will have them prominently displayed on a social media handle that is deeply personal to me. Of course, India is a democracy, so anyone can say anything to anyone—which is why I chuckled, reiterating my reaction from that evening three years ago. 

The deal is, people’s opinions are like farts. You can either choose to stand there and smell the aroma, or you can simply move away and eject yourself from the situation. 

Now, you will probably ask, "But this way, Gayatri, how can you ever have friends?" 

To answer that, let me tell you: I have exactly five to six really close friends spread across the country and abroad. I am happy with this bunch and quite reluctant to befriend all and sundry. I am simply not interested, and quite frankly, I don’t have the time to make over a thousand friends just to post pictures with them all over the city. Once again, not interested. I keep my circles tight and sensible. 

Every human being I meet teaches me a new life or professional skill, or simply makes me laugh. I don’t even look at the faces of gossipmongers and unambitious folks—that category of humans is a complete waste of time. 

Coming back to the point of this piece: I definitely don't seek attention by being a widowed single mother. I simply am. And I make noise about it because my work with that one human being I created—considering my very specific life circumstances—is a big deal, and I take full credit for it shamelessly. 

Non-attention-seeking, widowed at 34, single mother, out!

Learning Not to Be Two Parents

A day or two after my husband passed away in December 2021, my two-year-old rolled his travel suitcase toward me, lay flat on it like a baby Spiderman, and asked, "If Baba has gone to heaven, why hasn’t he taken his bag with him?" 

I burst into even more hysterical tears, completely unable to answer his question. But my son persisted: "Will he come back to take it?" 

Finally, one of my parents stepped in and answered, "No, Riaan. Baba is never coming back." 

We stayed in Bombay for close to three weeks after his passing to finish his last rites and pack my entire life of nearly eight years into cardboard boxes, all of which would be shipped back to my parental home in Chennai. On one of those final mornings, while we were playing on the apartment terrace, I wore my late husband’s flip-flops and an oversized metal band t-shirt. 

Once again, my toddler asked, "Why are you dressed like Baba?" 

I replied instantly, "Because I am Baba now." 

Mistake number one. Trying to become two people all at once is exhausting and logically impossible. I can never become my late husband—partly because I have a much better sense of style and far better taste in food! Kidding aside (perhaps this isn't the time to joke), I truly can never become him, and I shouldn’t even try. That is an honest explanation I later detailed to my child. 

Over time, his questions became more explicit, ranging from "Tell me the Baba die story?" and "What exactly broke in his brain?" to the dark humor he uses now. But he has coped—my brave little boy, who isn't a toddler anymore. 

Today, I receive the intense love of two parents, along with all the intense work that comes with it. I happily accept this responsibility, in this lifetime and the next. My son remains my life’s greatest blessing and the ultimate healer of a broken widow’s heart.

The Weekly Cycle

Monday dawns bright and chirpy,

Then the floodgates of work hit you, making your brain feel murky,

Mondays hold the promise of something new;

You simply want to feel anew,

By Wednesday, you desperately begin to yearn for Friday.

To quote my son, "Why can't we have a holiday every day?"

I wish that were the only way everyone lived,

Unfortunately, this is how generations before us have also lived,

The only way to break the cycle is to retire,

Yet the idea of life without work suddenly seems dire,

Monday dawns bright and chirpy,

Then the floodgates of work hit you, making your brain feel murky.

From Upside-Down Kisses to Monkey Business: My Spidey Romance

I was a hormonal high schooler when the Tobey Maguire Spider-Man movies dropped in 2002, 2004, and 2007. Kirsten Dunst as the iconic MJ and Tobey as Spidey ruined romance for an entire generation of school-going kids. They made us so old-school when it came to love, now old-school romance is probably scared of us. The idea was clear: stick to one partner for the rest of your life, occasionally share an upside-down kiss, and swing around maniacally screaming "Help!" until your vigilante boyfriend scoops you up into the air. 

I loved Spidey. I wanted to marry him and make Spidey babies with him—a thought I planted in the head of my 21-year-old boyfriend (who later became my husband) as soon as I met him. He was quieter than me—but then again, anyone is quieter than me. That's not the point, though. The point is, he just smiled and nodded. 

I didn't marry Spider-Man, but I married someone who believed in the same Spidey principles of living life on the edge, being spontaneous, and sticking to one partner for life. Sigh! No wonder I'm lonely in very brief moments. After my big, fat, fantastic Spidey romance, I am left with a child who is definitely not a Spidey baby. Instead, this is a creature that looks human but behaves like a chimpanzee from the deep, dark rainforests of the Amazon. Many more sighs now. 

In hindsight, I suppose I did live out a fulfilling Spidey romance—what a pity that it was so short-lived! But I'm sure life has many more adventures in store for me and my mini-chimpanzee, if not a mini-Spidey. We continue swinging from one adventure to the next and we don't look down! 

Spidey-obsessed mommy, out!

A True "Brand New Day" for Spider-Man

I'm probably going to piss off a whole bunch of Tom Holland fans as I write this, but him playing Spider-Man initially just didn't sit well with me. After growing up on a steady diet of Tobey Maguire's Spidey and then, very briefly, Andrew Garfield's, this teenage boy—with his annoying best friend Ned and unimpressive, hesitant-looking MJ—felt like a complete eyewash, almost mocking the entire Spider-Man franchise. 

However, he slowly and steadily slipped his way into my heart by becoming Iron Man's annoying child prodigy, and he has finally hit the nail on the head with "Brand New Day." He has finally done the entire, multi-generational Spider-Man franchise complete justice as a very mildly brooding but mostly slapstick-funny superhero with a heart. Tom Holland has outdone himself as the lonely adult who has had to choose between love, friendship, and duty. Your heart truly goes out to him as he slowly and steadily climbs the superhero ladder, winning the hearts of local citizens and the New York police force—all at the cost of sacrificing his friendship with Ned and the love of his life, MJ. 

Your heart breaks for him when the reality of his choice sets in. Making the people closest to him forget who he is leaves him so deeply sad that he suddenly has to deal with heightened senses and organic webs emanating from his wrists. These webs mutate overnight because he undergoes the sudden trauma of witnessing his loved ones living independent lives without him, forgetting him completely. Still, he deals with one supervillain after the next in his usual, comic, all-heart style, winning over the heart of even Jean Grey (which makes me guess there is a new X-Men movie coming out soon). 

It indeed felt like a brand new day with Tom Holland. He is all grown up now and has done the suit complete justice. I can't think of a better way to have spent a weekend morning. Kudos to the "Brand New Day" cast and crew—you've made a truly special movie!

Aligned with the Cosmos: How the Universe Tests Us to Elevate Us

I am a strong believer in the power of the universe. My marriage and its ultimate end are proof of this magical cosmic design. As a wide-eyed 21-year-old, I deeply wanted to marry that boy; the universe agreed and granted my wish. At 30, I desperately wanted a baby; once again, the universe agreed and granted it. When my husband passed away, I prayed to stop feeling that agonizing pain; the universe heard me and eventually granted me peace. 

The interesting pattern in all three situations was that I was tested repeatedly for many tiresome years before my wishes were fulfilled. The universe only granted my desires once I truly believed I could have them and began actively working toward them. Until then, the universe—whatever its gender may be—simply tested my resolve. 

Therefore, I tell aspiring people everywhere: whatever you truly want in life, ask the universe and then work relentlessly toward it. There is no other way. Keep your self-respect high, believe in yourself, and do not beat yourself down with negative thoughts or negative people. Simply step away from both. "I can and I will" is the only thought that must run through your head. 

I also firmly believe that when the universe takes, it gives. I lost my husband, but I took full control of my career—something I had practically taken for granted while he was alive. I lost one role in life (being a wife) and suddenly gained two (I am now both mom and dad). 

The universe only tests those who have the strength to survive. The most Herculean among us go through the fire and come out victorious, bearing a few burns but remaining unbroken. We survive, and eventually, we thrive. 

Of course, moments of hesitation and self-doubt happen, as they should. It is important to allow ourselves to wallow in self-pity once in a while because it is uniquely human. However, it is equally vital to get back on track the moment that session is over. Believe in yourself so that the universe can believe in you and your desires. 

Universally aligned person, out!

Endless Swims and Silly Squabbles

Spending time with my parents and son at the end of a tiring workweek is absolute bliss for me. Watching my mother in her big, blue, polka-dotted top, sitting by the poolside while watching my son and me swim lap after lap, is heaven. Mum has been taking me to pools since I was three. It is also the only time both of my parents let me pig out on whatever I want to eat. This is exactly why swimming has never worked as a weight-loss exercise for me—I can really eat! 

I always choose spending time with my family—which includes my son and parents—at the end of a tiring week and over the weekend. I need a solid 24 hours or more with them to feel completely refreshed for the week ahead. Of course, during the course of the weekend, we have our infinite number of silly squabbles. For example, my son and I fight like cats and dogs. At the end of a very nice swim and dinner, my mum and our driver were laughing hysterically at us. As always, she took her grandson's side over mine, so I threatened to take Dad with me to the new Spidey movie instead. 

Once again, welcome to my family, where the swims are endless and so are our silly squabbles. But one dip in the pool later, all is well in our world again. Very tired, overstuffed swimmer, out! ZzZzZzZ

Age vs. Wisdom: Why Shina is My Forever Agony Aunt

Shina and I go way back—all the way to the summer of 2012 when I joined Hanmer MSL (now MSLGROUP) as a Management Trainee. My life choices from then till now have gotten even more questionable, while her slippers have only gotten nicer with time. She has been forced to be my agony aunt for well over a decade. In fact, I’ve lost track of the number of articles I’ve written about her over the years.

I remember her as the face and the voice I reach out to first whenever shit hits the ceiling; she immediately hands me a mop to clean it all up. Every time I fall into a ditch, find a logical solution, but hesitate to actually action it, I call Shina. She pushes that button for me and encourages me to finish the shoddy job that probably never should have been started in the first place.

Now, the interesting point to note is that Shina is not much older than me—she is exactly less than two years older. Our friendship is a testimony to the fact that age and wisdom definitely don't go hand in hand. She has possessed a maturity and clarity in her thoughts from the moment I first met her as a newlywed bride, juggling daughter-in-law and work responsibilities like she was born to ace both roles.

Me, on the other hand? I’ve always struggled to push back when it comes to people and situations. I am a nice doormat, irrespective of whether I was in my 20s or, apparently, right now. I just cannot see when people are taking me for a ride, and that is exactly where Shina fits perfectly into my life—to open my eyes wide, right after saying, "Omg Gayatri! Not again!"

I am yet again in a "not again" situation, and Shina has immediately agreed to catch up and listen to me rant. Thank you, my dearest, shining Shina. What would I do without you in my life?

Your forever brain-eater,

Gayatri

Tsunamis, T-Rexes, and Psychological Warfare: Chronicles of a Tired Mommy

Hell hath no fury like a mommy scorned, and I scorn 10,000 times and more a day because I’ve given birth to a tiny Dennis the Menace. He creates tsunami waves in the shower by standing there endlessly and using the bathroom mop to splash water everywhere—but only after trapping it first by covering the drain. He snatches my mobile phone away from me midway through my writing (like right now), and lastly, he litters all over the house like a little mouse. His explanation for all of this is, 'I’m just a small child. Do you even love me? Why did you make me?' Sigh. 

Children and their crimes, followed by their puppy-dog faces and whimpering. It’s a mad juggle transforming from calm mommy mode to T-Rex mode. Who are these parents practicing gentle parenting anyway? I’d love to meet them. Are their children actually gentle? Do they never scream or give an occasional swat on the bum? How does that whole thing work exactly? Because my child and I are far from gentle.

It’s madness in the Riaan household from 6 a.m. to 9 p.m. That is one crazy long shift with zero breaks for me, because school hours overlap with my work hours, and post-school hours are spent catching up on homework while still juggling work tasks. I'm ready to give up any minute now. But here’s the joke: we apparently can’t, because we gave birth to them. And if they aren't smart enough, we’ll end up babysitting their kids as well. Omg! I’m ready to run now.

I'm looking at flights to book myself a trip to Ogygia—the same mythical island where Odysseus was held prisoner by the beautiful nymph goddess, Calypso. I am fully ready to have a nymph goddess fall in love with me and make me her immortal partner. Any nymph goddess or god reading this? 

Tired mommy of a very naughty little boy, out!"

What Death Taught Me About Control

As long as you understand that everyone in your life has a season and a reason, you're good to go. Unnecessary clinging and attachment will only get you into trouble, not the other person. At this point, I'd like to quote my own example. I still cling onto my late husband's memories and eat a cheesecake at Starbucks every alternate weekend. What is even the point? The man is happily sitting in heaven, strumming a guitar and sipping on a Bira. End of story.

Therefore, live in the present. That's all you have control over—not other people, not circumstances, not even your children. Just you. That's all you have control over: yourself. Control your emotions, be realistic, pace yourself, and slow down.

I've started thinking about the larger picture each time I meet a person, see a cute object, or face a circumstance—how long is this human, material thing, or life issue I'm dealing with really going to last? Then, I set my expectations accordingly. Death gives you so much wisdom. This wisdom, right here, is what I've splattered all across this piece. To be prepared for any nasties that life and people throw at me is what death taught me, and it's a skill I'm grateful to have acquired.

More realistic person, out!

The Lingering of Human Life Post-Death

Perhaps the real reason I haven't bought myself a Mickey Mouse watch again is probably because it will instantly remind me of the pink one I owned, purchased by my late husband for me from Hong Kong Disneyland's gift shop. There's another niggling part of my brain that also says, "The bracelet he picked up for you is still around, along with the purple Minnie earrings. Also, you're a grown woman—maybe keep wearing Superhero watches for now; those at least pass off to be adult and mature." 

The watch, along with Bengali food, is something I won't dare try again after all these years. The memories are strong. It is also the reason I'd probably never visit Bombay, Delhi, or Calcutta again, unless it's for work; then I'll have no choice. I call this the lingering of human life post-death. And this is the part where I tell you, just let your grief grief, because if you don't, you'll find yourself being hospitalized for breathlessness on a normal working day (guilty as charged). 

Jeera rice, buttery paneer, Puja Pandals, and cholar dal instantly remind me of my late husband's dimply face. That's my griefy fear, which I've simply refused to face in all these years. I'm still not brave enough to travel down any of these roads—culinarily or geographically—yet, and I accept my cowardice for now. Not-so-griefy person, yet grief-ridden on occasion, out!

Battlegrounds, Boundaries, and the Power of the Brew

For my brain, the caffeine addiction and withdrawal are very, very real. I can almost hear the gears in my mind churning the moment I sip that liquid brown gold. Conversely, my brain goes to sleep, protesting with a pounding migraine, if I don't grab a cuppa first thing in the morning—either with breakfast or right before it. 

I simply cannot function without my precious cup of coffee. It wakes me up and gives me the energy to deal with child and work tantrums—one often worse than the other. Someone is always crying somewhere, either on the work front or the personal front, and moods must be pacified immediately with calming words or hugs, depending on the audience. Without coffee, managing both of these audiences is tricky at best, to put it most diplomatically. 

I recently noticed just how acute my caffeine withdrawal is thanks to a severe case of food poisoning or GERD (the jury is still out on that one) that I inflicted upon myself. Because of it, I had to stop my morning cuppa temporarily. What a nightmare those days were! By nightfall, I just took deep, calming breaths and gave myself a pat on the back for having the courage to stand in the battleground and survive—all without my precious armour, my morning coffee. 

A dear musician friend, who passed away around the same time my husband did, wrote and sang an entire song called "Morning Coffee." I remember him owning all kinds of machines and powders. I totally get that now. I am closely following in his footsteps—minus the fancy equipment, though. I stick to my Levista instant coffee every morning, and with it, I prepare myself for battle. 

Caffeine-addicted survivor, out!

The Working Mother’s Dilemma: Homework, Guilt, and the Corporate Return

The greatest anxiety about returning to the office for me is my son and his unending school homework. Who is going to wander around the streets of Srinagar Colony searching for the right-sized leaf for him to colour on and then stick inside his Joyful Maths textbook if I am sitting in an office at 4 PM? Who is going to make sure that he studies for his pen-and-paper test the next day if I am not around when he is back from school? Cue the sad sniffs now. 

For me, this is like cutting the umbilical cord all over again. Choosing the office over home means choosing work over school. A part of me says I am a bad mother, and another part says the school books and the school came into the picture in the first place only because of work, so please go to work. It is a hard juggle—motherhood versus my career—and I am sure all mothers will quickly nod along when I say the guilt is a bottomless pit. 

We always wonder whether we are doing enough for our little ones to succeed at school. Did he get a C this time because I had to step into the office? Would he have gotten an A instead had I been at home? Then I think about his priorities in life: Minecraft blocks and T-shirts, playzones, and Skechers light-up shoes. Yes, those things could definitely not have been procured by him had he not cunningly brainwashed me and had I not been working. 

Still, I am conflicted. Why should working parents ever have to choose between growing careers and growing children? It is just not fair. Conflicted parent out. Cue one dozen plus sad sighs now.