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.

From Superhero to Cuckoo Clock: Surviving the Wild Ride of Perimenopause Sleep

I'm not sure if I'm going through perimenopause or whether my inner Batman has finally woken up, with no Gotham to save in sight. I wake up every 3.5 to 4 hours every night like a cuckoo bouncing out of its majestic wooden frame from inside a cuckoo clock—those devices which look both magical and haunted. Remember them? Now, I am that cuckoo clock, Batman, and a perimenopausal woman all combined.

Sometimes I fall back asleep quickly. At other times, my 7-year-old screams, "Stop moving your fat body so much, maamaa!" I have yet to educate that kid on fat-shaming, body-shaming, or any kind of shaming, in fact.

The next morning, I wake up either feeling like a zombie or a very wound-up cuckoo clock, ready to go "Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo!" with 20 bars of chocolate pieces to keep my sleep-deprived brain in check. It comes and goes in waves—the sleep, I mean. As soon as I plop my head on the pillow, my power nap becomes a Kumbhakarna nap, and then there's more drool on my face and the pillowcase than the Ganges could ever produce water in its entire lifetime.

So, what exactly is happening to me? Why am I behaving like Batman with no Gotham to save and a haunted cuckoo clock? These are questions that will haunt me until the end of time, or menopause, or until I decide to build a Batcave and actually turn into Batman.

"You either die a hero or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain," to quote The Dark Knight. In my case, you either don't die from sleeping, or you stay awake long enough to see yourself become a cuckoo clock.

Gayatri out! Or should I say: ZzZzZzZzZz...

The Polycystic Nightmare: When the Soul Wants to Quit

To all my PCOD sisters, I feel you. I’ve lost weight, stopped eating, and exercised every single day without a break. I’ve cut sugar and carbs, and at this point, my soul feels completely cut up too. I am pretty sure she wants to escape my body, slap me hard across the face, and say, "Sister, please stop torturing me. Start torturing your ovaries instead!"

I’ve had countless TVS scans over the years and popped an astonishing variety of pills for the past five years. Yet, after every single scan, the radiologist says, "Yes, everything is the same. No change." Meanwhile, my wonderful gynecologist tells me, "No surgery for you, Gayatri, you are too young." Sigh.

Therefore, I live with the sensation of occasional knives poking me from the inside of my abdomen every time my pills fail to work—which happens about once every three to four months. This month is one of those times. The abdominal pain is nagging and persistent, and the back pain is so severe it would put The Hunchback of Notre Dame to shame.

I’ve lost track of how many chocolate bars I have consumed this week. My gynecologist strongly advises me to take Dolo instead of eating chocolate, but honestly, chocolate is the only thing keeping my soul alive right now. So, I choose chocolate. There is simply no method to this PCOD madness. We either wait for menopause, fight for a surgery, or wait for our souls to step out of our bodies and hit us in the face with a chair ten times. Even then, there is no respite from the pain.

Sigh, and another sigh—of the deeply painful kind. When will this discomfort finally end?

From "Food Feeder" to Finality: Why I Won't Settle for Half-Hearted Love

I was 18 years old when I bumped into my then-bestie, then-enemy, now-occasional-pinging-person—AJ. I looked like a football, and he enjoyed eating. His dream, even then, was to start a restaurant. "You can come and eat everything for free, G.B.," he declared as a young 20-something. The irony is that he is a successful restaurateur now, running chains across Hyderabad, Vizag, and Bangalore, along with being a father to an adorable little boy, and I haven't visited even one of those restaurants yet.

Before digressing further, going back to when I was an 18-year-old football, AJ was very clear: "GB, you must only marry someone who feeds you well. Every month you have to put on one kilo post-marriage; only then can you attain marital bliss. Also, don't change for anyone. You have to be accepted just as you are—a tiny, food-loving football."

I was on board with this delicious plan from day one. Luckily for me, four years later, I did meet a man like that who fed me endlessly—my late husband. He was clear about two things in life:

1.The way to this girl's heart is food.

2.The more I feed her, the more she will fall in love with me.

He was right because, years later, we got married, and I have produced a crazy child who is a mixture of both of us.

The point of this story is that I can't settle for "let's go with the flow" and "we'll see where this leads" when I once knew a man who was crystal clear that he wanted to be with me from day one. Half-hearted efforts are just not for me. While it is heartbreaking to accept in the moment, this one sad moment of realization can save you years of misery.

And that's why, ladies and gentlemen, I have been single for the past five years. I am yet to find my food feeder and the wholehearted acceptor of my crazy brains—and now, I suppose, my child's as well.End of story. Now, back to work, everyone. It's a Monday morning.

The Women Behind the Brands: Inspiration and Sisterhood at "She Builds"

I attended yet another high-octane Shakthi Circle event yesterday morning. Appropriately titled "She Builds," the event gave every woman the opportunity to discuss her professional journey, key learnings, and the challenges faced while climbing the ladder or building her brand. 

It was a supercharged morning with ideas flying left, right, and centre, giving each attendee a bird’s-eye view of what others were creating.

Rooms like these truly inspire, educate, and uplift. I have always believed that women can either be each other’s best friends or worst enemies. Women understand women like no other beings on Earth, regardless of their stage in life. 

There is an unspoken empathy, understanding, and sisterhood that can be felt within mere minutes, even when meeting for the very first time.

While the Shakthi Circle team—comprising Gehena Thilakesh and Vaishnavi Srinivasan—had positioned "She Builds" as an opportunity for brand building through storytelling, what I truly saw were the raw passion and the faces behind the brands that made each unique business stand out. 

Even four hours felt like too little time to fully grasp every unique business idea and the inspiring stories behind them. I left the room filled with knowledge and hungry for more. 

To top it all off, the icing on the cake was receiving an Oryessence gift hamper for each attendee, handed out by the chatty founder, Bharathy, herself.

A Refreshing, Raw, and Rewarding Evolution of Supergirl

As someone who grew up on a steady diet of the traditional, "goody-two-shoes" Superman—spanning from Christopher Reeve and Henry Cavill to the current actor Tyler Hoechlin—it was incredibly jarring to see a young, twenty-something Supergirl. 

In the first half of the movie, she is constantly drunk and running wild from one planet to the next with her unruly dog. Everything about her, from her unkempt hair to her drunken fighting style, felt completely wrong. I found myself wondering, Where am I? What am I watching? Who is this young girl tarnishing the glorious, hard-earned reputation of Kal-El?

However, the story truly picks up during a flashback that explores her grief. We see how heartbroken she was as a child, watching her home planet of Krypton explode and witnessing her parents slowly die right in front of her. 

This harsh upbringing explains exactly why Kara is the way she is. She is lost, lonely, and struggles to understand Superman's optimistic spirit or, as she puts it in the movie, "his young heart."

Without giving away too many spoilers, I will just say that your heart will eventually go out to Supergirl. You will witness her come into her own and emerge as a superhero just as wonderful as her cousin. She ultimately stands up for the weak and conquers evil. 

You will walk out of the theater feeling inspired and motivated to keep pushing forward in real life, just as Kara did—even if she does promise to quit her pub crawls and truly take ownership of her superpowers. This is definitely a great watch for Superman fans. Do not miss it on the big screen!

From T-Rex Wrath to Parenting Wins: A Lesson in Accountability

My period coincided with the Ambubachi Mela of Maa Kamakhya this month, according to my friend Preethi on Instagram. She shared reels with me about the festival and told me how to ease the pain spiritually and through my diet. I nodded along to everything she said, but the reality of managing a hyperactive child at home alongside a demanding corporate career is that I rarely have time to look at my own face from Monday to Friday.

Consequently, last evening, I completely snapped at my seven-year-old because he spelled scale as "skale" and pizza as "petsa." I lost my temper beyond recognition and quickly turned into a T-Rex. Seeing him shiver inside his sleeveless "I'm a trouble maker" tank top immediately made me feel guilty. Once the study session was over, I hugged him and explained that I was on my period—something all women go through month after month—and that my stomach was hurting badly. I explained that I snapped because I was mentally exhausted from work and physically drained on day four of my cycle. As I hugged him, he smiled and looked up at me with his googly eyes. I assured him that I was a bad mamma in that moment and that he should never have experienced my "period wrath."

I took ownership of my hormone-induced rage and laid out my flaws in front of him. The reason I explain every T-Rex moment to my son is so that when he loses his temper someday with his friends, family, or especially his own children, he will know how to rectify the situation quickly and restore normalcy. You are welcome, future daughter-in-law—whether you are currently in diapers, floating inside a womb, or still just an idea in outer space!

Talking endlessly with him is how I hope to raise him into a good human being who takes accountability and admits his wrongdoings. Oops! No wonder the child is a chatterbox. That is all, folks! That is my parenting 101 guide for the day for you to either follow or disagree with. After all, every monkey has their own ringmaster and circus—our kids being the monkeys in this instance, of course.

Grief, Ice Cream, and the Myth of Being "Too Young"

Yet another 3 AM wake-up today with clear glimpses of a past life: me entering Galleria Mall in Powai with my then-living husband, stuffing our faces with ice cream at Apsara. I remember taking a sneaky selfie of us chomping down our ice cream like animals. I jerked out of my slumber at that point and wondered what this dream, or rather this reminiscence of a past life, meant.

Perhaps it meant that ice cream is forever—with or without a marriage or a husband. I must continue eating ice cream and finding joy in the little things. Life goes on, and ice cream melts fast. It is better to act quickly in both life and while eating ice cream.

Five years later, I still have complete strangers look me in the face, gasp, and say, "You're too young to be widowed." What is the concept of young or old when tragedy strikes? Who even has control over such things? It is absolutely ridiculous to look someone in the eye and say something like that.

Once again, the adage "think before you speak" comes to mind. Do not just say whatever you want to someone who has lost a significant other. It is not only foolish but also extremely insensitive. If you do not have anything constructive to say, say nothing at all, mind your own business, and keep moving.

Move Over, Karan Johar: Why My Family Beats Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham

A moment of appreciation for my sisters—by marriage and by blood. They get me like no one else in the world. One good, incoherent cry session with my cousin or my sister-in-law from Dubai, where I am sobbing hysterically more than talking, is enough to revive me back to my superhero self. Even as I cry as loudly as my son and gush out incoherent mumbo jumbo, they hear everything loud and crystal clear.

My favourite food? Cooked and ready for me before I even reach their houses. The coloured kajals I love to wear, along with some junk jewellery? Already set aside and waiting for me when I visit. Superhero bobbleheads? Picked up only after a video call to confirm exactly which one I want. I am truly blessed to have this trio: two by marriage and one by birth.

Both of my brothers—my cousin and my own—absolutely hate my guts when I declare to their faces that their wives are the better versions of them. Of course, I am kidding when I say this. While their better halves understand my soul, my brothers understand the madness in my soul and why it works the way it does. All of these couples complement each other like Yin and Yang. Lucky for me, I am loved by everyone without any bias. Obviously, this overflowing love spills over to my already spoiled brat of a son as well.

When we all meet once a year, the joy that fills my heart cannot be put into words. We are a multigenerational, food-loving, loud, opinionated, screechy, and super-affectionate family. We may or may not bite, depending on the conversation you choose to have with us. I love this family—men, women, children, animals, and everything in between. Well, there goes another article into the world about loving your family. I could put Karan Johar to shame now; Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham is simply no match for us.

The Myth of the Period Goddess vs. My Reality

I have been watching reels and beautiful stories about how periods are celebrated in Indian temples, how anger is actually a feminine power tied to the goddess Kali, and how menstruating means a woman is at her strongest. While that sounds absolutely wonderful on paper, periods have done nothing but suck the wind out of my system ever since I first got them at nearly ten years old.

My symptoms grew progressively worse over the years until I was finally diagnosed with PCOD a year after I got married. The condition was discovered only after a bout of severe back pain left me completely bedridden for a week. That was when ultrasound scans revealed cysts on both of my ovaries that looked as massive as the globe does from outer space.

As a newly married woman, the nurses and lab technicians were horrified by my scans. They kept bluntly asking if I had a child yet, telling me that if I didn't, it was high time I thought about making one. Needless to say, I had a very difficult time conceiving, followed by an even bumpier pregnancy.

Of course, the bright side of that grueling journey is raising my cheeky little son. He constantly shakes his bum at me and asks for another "beating" on his backside, hilariously insisting it is a "relaxing massage" rather than a punishment.

However, returning to my PCOD, I hardly feel like a goddess or at my strongest. On the contrary, it feels like a volcanic eruption is tearing through my entire abdomen. The only thing that puts the fire out is consuming two to three kilos of chocolate ice cream, chocolate sauce, and chocolate cakes.

All the Dronis 30 pills and hot water bags in the world cannot extinguish this pain. I am forced to lie in bed all day, either sleeping or staring up at the ceiling fan. I end up having incoherent conversations with it, much like a drunk three-month-old baby who has just breastfed and is about to knock off to sleep. There are definitely no goddess feelings here—just my PCOD kicking me hard, month after month, for the past two decades.

From Barbies to Deliverables: The Subliminal Genius of the Toy Industry

There is a reason why little girls were given doll sets to play with, along with houses for those dolls to live in. The truth is, women are fantastic when it comes to decorating their homes and looking after their real-life "dollies"—their kids. As I impulsively buy yet another Minecraft T-shirt and matching co-ord set for my son, along with watches and curios for the house, I find myself going back in time. I see my four-year-old self playing with Barbie dolls, organizing their cupboards, and doing their hair, makeup, and clothes.

Zoom out to the present day, and that is exactly what I am doing with my 7.5-year-old. I dress him up like a sparkly little kuttappan day in and day out, while impulsively filling my house with shiny, bright things. It all makes so much sense 39 years later.

Going by this logic, perhaps little boys play with cars and action figures because they must learn to navigate life expertly—both with and without Google Maps—on the road, in their offices, and at home. The action figures probably represent the need to take charge, be accountable, and take responsibility for all the "dead bodies" they line up. In this day and age, "dead bodies" likely translate to deliverables at the office and commitments to their partners and families.

The toy industry is genius when you think about it. For centuries, they have been subliminally passing down the message that women are nurturers, caregivers, and life-bringers, while men must take charge, lead the way, and bring clarity to every situation—both at home and at work.

And that is my Eureka moment for the day, ladies and gentlemen. Back to work now, chop-chop!

From Tsunamis to Calm Oceans: Tales of a Boy Mom

Contrary to popular belief, little boys are in fact as sensitive as, if not more sensitive than, little girls. Mine had a full meltdown yesterday after an entire day out with his bestie. As I was giving him a piece of my mind for opening his floodgates after spending more than half a day with his favourite tiny human, I could see his bestie's face falling as well. In that moment, I perhaps looked like Cruella de Vil to the kids—the Emma Stone version, to be exact.

As I let the tornado in my mind unleash on him and watched his tear-soaked face, the mom guilt kicked in hard. But what kicked even harder was the fact that this mini-man I created was as stubborn and pig-headed as me. 

He is so set in his ways he would put a freshly tarred road to shame. At 48 inches tall, his opinions and loyalty toward his bestie are massive. His bestie's feelings are exactly the same.

As we watched them wreak havoc from one room to the next, my mom friend and I questioned each other: "Which world have we entered?", "Do you think people will curse us?", "Oh my god, I don't see them, they're definitely going to be kidnapped now," and "I can't hear my own thoughts with all their chatter, can you?" 

Our sweet little angels are so wonderful to watch from a distance but a total disaster up close. But they are our disasters, and we will not rest until we turn them into calm, mighty oceans from the tsunamis they currently are.

Beneath the Smile: The Fire of Puss in Boots and Bubbles

I suppose half my life and perhaps less than half my career is done and dusted, which gives me knowledge. It is the knowledge to sniff out bullshit and pettiness, such as jealousy, attention-seeking, and other useless emotions. Of course, it took me a lot of time to see through people and understand their ways because I am a positive person in every situation—whether dealing with life or death. I simply move on and eventually smile about it.

Therefore, considering I am Bubbles from the Powerpuff Girls in real life, villains are few and far between in my head. Similar to Bubbles, I am known for bringing joy, laughter, and insanity to my friends, family, and colleagues. However, also like Bubbles, I have an intense temper when provoked. If you annoy me in any way—be it through speech or action—I positively will punch your nose out and hand it to you in a bag to fix at the hospital.

I can no longer stand micromanagement, unnecessary commentary, suggestions, and opinions from all and sundry. I hand it right back to them like MJ’s "Smooth Criminal." You could also say I am Puss in Boots. I disarm "enemies" with my trademark "cute face" (wide eyes and dilated pupils), only to fiercely fight them the moment they drop their guard. Therefore, never judge a book by its cover. I am the book and the cover here, and I will bite.

So, keep your distance unless you are a very close friend, an acquaintance, or a family member who has managed to sneak your way into my heart. For everyone else, I am Puss in Boots and Bubbles from the Powerpuff Girls. On that note, in the words of Bubbles, "I'm hardcore," and to quote Puss, "Fear me if you dare!"

Catwoman and the Porcelain Reality Check

I picked up a console table and a sweet, bespectacled-looking bunny to keep on top of it over the weekend. As I was staring at the face of the cute porcelain wonder and explaining to my mother with great enthusiasm how I’d convert the console table into an Alice in Wonderland theme, along came my child. He stared at the bespectacled face of the rabbit for ten seconds, looked at my face for the next five, and announced instantly, "Oh look, a bunny that looks like my maaamaa!"

Hearing that proclamation from him shattered the porcelain glass windows of my heart, which I had painted in multicolours. The beautiful illusion of youth I lived in was destroyed by my own 7.5-year-old creation. He walked straight back to his toys and screen after making this declaration, completely unbothered that my world had just ended. I sniffed and let it pass.

Meanwhile, my much-hyped prescription reading glasses finally got delivered yesterday afternoon. Suddenly, my headaches vanished as I stared at my laptop and mobile screens. I decided to video call my mother with the glasses on in the middle of work. One look at my face and she chuckled loudly, saying, "Aiiyyeeee, Teacher Gayatri!" I stopped working, stared at her laughing digital face, and blinked. Sigh! Approaching 40 is really biting me hard on my backside, front side, and especially on all sides of my face.

In other news, someone else mentioned that they look like "Catwoman" glasses when I shared a picture. So, I'm going to go with that. I'm not old; I'm Catwoman. Meow!

Now, let me ride into the sunset with my Catwoman glasses and conquer yet another day of work. The weekend is almost here, along with my Zepto order containing a ₹600 bar of Fabelle's dark kunafa chocolate. Let me munch on some now and continue being sprightly! Good day to you all, and happy almost weekend! Keep being sprightly, with or without reading glasses. Meow meow!

Once a Hanmerite, Always a Hanmerite: A Tribute to My First PR Family

Hanmer MSL, aka MSL India. How do I even begin putting into words what this place meant to me?

It was my first PR job and an organisation that understood my madness, encouraging me to be my unique self—broken screws in the head and all. I laughed, I cried, I ate, and occasionally, I secured media coverage for my clients and did media rounds. But mostly, working at Hanmer MSL felt like a home away from home. I found sisterhood, friendship, inspiring leaders, and interesting clients who pushed me to channel my creative energy into something productive. They taught me that there has to be some method to the madness. Every boss after my Hanmer MSL stint has called me meticulous and hardworking, and perhaps I owe Hanmer all the credit for that.

This company made me who I am today: crazy in the head, but sharp with my work. Perhaps I oversell myself now, but that is unfortunately a PR trait! After 16 years in the industry, I suppose I have learnt to position my personal brand better as well. Yet, deep down, I am still that overeating young Management Trainee hired by Beerendra Sir back in 2012, just with 16 years of experience now.

Afternoons at Hanmer MSL were spent playing on the office lawn. I say "home" because our office was inside a cozy house. Whenever there was a power cut, we would all head out to the lawn to play badminton, take pictures, or just chit-chat. Work and play went hand in hand, which is why the Hanmer MSL class of our era did so well later in their professional careers. We were taught to take everything with a pinch of salt and to smile through every crisis.

Senthamil Sir’s warm smile and sensational pitch presentations—where he completely owned the room and won over potential clients—motivated us to keep going. Vijay Sir was quiet, but when he did speak, you remembered every word with precision, like a crystal-clear glass bowl. Beerendra Sir was my biggest cheerleader and supporter; he pushed me to excel and trusted me with client after client, no questions asked.

Thank you, my dearest Hanmer MSL crew. How can I ever forget the organisation and the people who made me who I am? You are not just my former colleagues; you are family. My heart is always open to you, and there is a special corner where you all permanently reside. 

Once a Hanmerite, always a Hanmerite.