Surviving the Screen: How I Traded My Late Husband’s Legacy of Overwork for Peace

I was 34 with a two-year-old when I lost my husband and partner of close to 13 years to overwork. It was a screechingly abrupt ending to a life I was piecing together brick by brick, like a Lego set. With him gone at the ridiculously young age of 35, I felt the very foundation of my life grow shaky. To the outside world, I seemed resilient; I threw myself back into the corporate world a mere four months after his passing. I could no longer sit at home undertaking freelance gigs. I took it upon myself to become both father and mother—a task I initially failed at miserably. 

At first, I behaved just like he had. I drowned myself in work, logging in at 2 AM and 3 AM for inconsequential tasks that could easily have been done during official office hours. In hindsight, the overwork numbed the intense pain of what felt like a deep betrayal. I felt cheated by my late husband, who had always prioritized work over our marriage, our son, and our home. I wondered why we had even gotten married in the first place if all he wanted to do was work and die. I was a "lock-and-key" wife, married to a high-flying management consultant who simply refused to slow down. I met his sleeping back on a few weekends, but for the most part, I was always home alone. I shuttled back and forth to the office, eventually carrying a massive baby bump with no husband at home. The loneliness crushed me, culminating in a complicated pregnancy that forced me onto bedrest by the sixth month. 

The point I am trying to make is that overwork does not impress me. I have witnessed a man live by his laptop and die by his laptop. And guess what happened when he died on the job? I received his laptop bag—minus the laptop. That is all he was to his Big 4 management consulting firm: a resource who won an important client for their organization. 

I still remember the last 24 hours he was alive. He shopped distractedly for shorts to wear at home at R City Mall, Ghatkopar, quickly rushed back, turned on his laptop, and continued to fine-tune a pitch presentation to win over an oil and gas company. I remember watching his tense face on that Sunday evening, still unable to shut down from work, and I sighed. He didn't take in the beautiful Powai sunset from our airy 10th-floor apartment; he barely even looked at our two-year-old boy that day. By the next evening at that exact same time, he was gone forever. 

I remember breaking down in front of his ex-boss and screaming, "Take me to him!" To my grief-stricken brain, he looked more alive and handsome than ever. It is a moment I will never forget—my handsome, young husband's sleeping face, with a very confused two-year-old being held above him. 

The next couple of dozen months were utter hell as I was forced to accept this new reality. Slowly and steadily, however, I learned that overwork is rubbish. Prioritizing your health and your family are the only two things that truly matter. I have always loved my work too—the only time I took a step back to freelance was when I wanted to have a baby—but I always prioritized home and family over my career, and I continue to do so today. 

I do not live by the laptop, and I do not log in beyond office hours. I am entirely unimpressed by those who overwork and consider working to be the only important part of their existence. My 7.5-year-old son, my health, my family, my friends, and my peace of mind are vastly more important than a career of 16 years and counting. My job is not my personality or my core identity. It is simply something I enjoy doing because I like a daily challenge. A new delivery or a shift in a deadline thrills me, but I will never let it kill me—not today, not tomorrow, and definitely not the day after. 

The disappointment I felt toward my late husband slowly turned to acceptance, and finally, to forgiveness. In forgiving him, I found my peace. And that is my story of handling grief.

Why I'm Stepping Away From Complex Friendships

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Almost 40-year-old woman, out!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Corporate slave and devoted mommy, out! 

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

To My Safe Space and Sister from Another Mother

My dearest Oishee, 

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

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

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

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

Love,

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

Your Gayatri

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fat Thor" out!

I've Got This Handled: A Journey Through Loss

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

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

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

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

A Parent's Dual Mind

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

It was enough to take my breath away,

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

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

My brain immediately split in two,

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

He bounced in at three as usual,

sounding a little too casual about his fall,

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

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

He turned into a little demon—the screechiest kind,

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

It was enough to take my breath away.

Post-Vacation Blues and the Laundry Mountain

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

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

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

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