Surviving the Great Indian Office Freeze

For some reason, Indian offices simply assume that the creatures who work inside their premises are not human and are gigantic bears instead, with layers of uncut fur. The temperatures are kept at freezing cold from 8.45am and it keeps going up as the day progresses.

I'm bundled up in layer after layer of clothing and even then I feel like a frozen stalactite. By the end of the day, I can't feel anything on my face anymore and my mother asks me why I'm not turning on the fan in my hall as I watch TV in the evening. 

My fingers are ice-cubes at this point and I'm debating whether to run away from my desk, grab an early lunch along with my usual coffee wanderings or continue being transformed into a bucket of ice.

Just another 1.5 days of this until I'm back again next month for more freezing days at work. Grammer check and give heading 

Heading: Corporate Life: Slowly Freezing to Death

For some reason, Indian offices simply assume that the creatures working inside their premises aren't human but gigantic bears with layers upon layers of untrimmed fur. The temperatures are kept at freezing levels from 8.45 am, and they keep rising as the day progresses. (At least, that's what it feels like!)

I'm bundled up in layer after layer of clothing, and even then, I feel like a frozen stalactite. By the end of the day, I can't feel anything on my face anymore, and my mother asks me why I'm not turning on the fan in the hall while I watch TV in the evening.

My fingers are ice cubes at this point, and I'm debating whether to run away from my desk, grab an early lunch along with my usual coffee wanderings, or continue being transformed into a bucket of ice.

Just another day and a half of this, and then I'm free until I'm back again next month for more freezing days at work.

We Will Work for Food (And the Occasional Chocolate Cookie)

What happens when a rebellious child is forced to conform to rules from the 1800s? She whines, because she loves her food at the end of the day. And no money means no food.

In the words of my 8-year-old, when I asked him if I could sit at home and stare at his pretty little face all day long, he replied without missing a beat, “That would be lovely, Mum. But we'd surely die of hungervation, not starvation.”

Food is very important in my household. Food of all varieties, mind you — nutritious, junk, fibrous, sugary, cheesy and the mundane.

So, I think my son and I have our priorities right, which is: “We will work for food.”

This juicy, decadent, chocolatey goodness pictured here is what is keeping me from falling asleep today. What's to like about working days, honestly? Dressing up? Battling the rain? The traffic? No, no and no.

It's sugar in all its varieties — sugar-free, full-sugar, milky and decadent chocolate. Or, in other words, filter coffee with no sugar, accompanied by a dark chocolate cookie.

And that's a wrap on gloomy Wednesdays. I saved mine with a cookie. What are you planning to do?

A Mother’s Love, a Pile of Food, and a Midlife Crisis

Mothers, am I right?

Two kilos plus from all the kunafa chocolate stuffing, and she says, “You look lovely.” Turning 40 in exactly three months, and she says, “You’re still 39.”

Happy, sad, depressed, suicidally depressed — whatever the mood, mine just sits in front of me with a pile of food and listens to me rant.

And of late, I’ve become a big pile of whine. It’s not pretty. There’s a problem with everything, and I’m probably in the middle of a midlife crisis, a mental breakdown, or both.

But I’m done. I want to shut down from everything and take one nice, long nap. I want to wake up and do absolutely nothing all day, except swim, eat, sleep, and repeat.

There’s a soul-level exhaustion that even an entire bar of kunafa chocolate isn’t able to get rid of.

I want to sleep for 48 hours straight. Wake up, and go back to sleep again.

Enough is enough! I’m done.

The Almost-40 Crisis: Where Are My Superpowers?

Almost 40, and I feel like I'm still searching for my sword of power and my He-Man transformation moment.

To begin with, my mind and body seem to be giving up on me. Sinus attacks once every two weeks, sad, mopey thoughts almost every day, until I stuff my face with something deep-fried or sugar-coated.

I'm on a mini-vacation in Dubai with my brother and his family, and I'm in the middle of a bad sinus attack that started yesterday. That's more than 24 hours wasted in the middle of a tiny, five-day holiday.

Time and health truly wait for none. They're like the pooping pigeons and the occasional head-scratching crows you encounter in the middle of your morning walk.

But you wipe it off, or duck and keep walking.

I think my New Year's resolution is to stop being such a cribby cribber and actually take action with the two seconds of time I have left at the end of every maniacal day to do something for myself.

As always, keep thulping sugar in moderation and keep moving forward, with or without sinus attacks mixed with sad, mopey thoughts.

The Airport Is Quiet. My Child Didn't Get the Memo.

There is an odd kind of stillness in the air when it comes to early-morning flights. The occasional announcement asking a passenger to report to the boarding gate is pretty much the only thing breaking the silence. That, and mothers travelling alone with their children, providing live updates of their every move to the family back home. At full volume, obviously. Because why should the rest of us miss out on the itinerary?

And then there's my child. A 4-foot-2-inch human who believes that silence is a crime and has taken it upon himself to comment on every crying baby within a 50-metre radius. Each baby gets a review, a reaction and, occasionally, a running commentary. I am just waiting for him to start handing out ratings.

Meanwhile, the other passengers are sitting there with expressions ranging from mild anxiety to existential dread, silently wondering whether their flight will board on time, whether they have all their belongings and whether they should have just stayed in bed.

And me? I'm trying my best not to eat my lipstick while my stomach stages a full-blown protest over the lack of food. The early-morning caffeine and two dates clearly didn't cut it.

Early-morning airports are dead still. Except for the crying babies, the occasional loudspeaker announcement, mothers on phone calls, my child hosting his own podcast and my stomach threatening to join the conversation.

Peace and quiet? Clearly, I booked the wrong flight.

PCOD That Refuses to Rest

PCOD that refuses to rest,

The two injections I was jabbed with clearly did their best.

Painkillers I refuse to ingest,

Even when I feel short of breath.

A gynaecologist who refuses to put me under the knife,

For she feels my body will undergo more strife.

I wonder why October every year is bad,

With painful PCOD cramps that leave me sad.

I have no idea how to live with this constant pain,

That rules my mind and body, again and again.

PCOD that refuses to rest,

The two injections I was jabbed with clearly did their best.

(Image sourced from https://www.sakraworldhospital.com/blogs/pcod/315)

Larger Than Life, Smaller Than My Teenage Heart Could Handle

So, before — waaaay before — I turned my attention to bad-boy metal guitarists and bikers, my teenage brain and heart did multiple flip-flops over some very, very good boys: "The Backstreet Boys!" And I think most of us are mums now to one or two little villains of our own. 

How do I explain to my child that I once had a Hotmail ID called gayatrilovesnicky@hotmail.com and actually wanted to have Nick Carter's babies? No. I think I'll take that little piece of information to the grave. Some secrets are best kept buried. 

But even now, when I listen to any of the old Backstreet Boys hits, starting with "I Want It That Way", "Everybody", "As Long as You Love Me", "Shape of My Heart" and "Larger Than Life", I'm transported straight back to being that impressionable, infatuated teenager.

And oh, what pretty faces all five of them had! Nick Carter, Brian Littrell, AJ McLean, Howie Dorough and Kevin Richardson. Clearly, they were getting much better haircuts than I was. 

Pretty, pretty, preeeetty! So pretty! Pretty enough to make a teenage girl's heart melt completely inside her chest. 

Oh my God! I'm not even going to lie. I might still be infatuated, decades later, and now with a child of my own.

Once a Backstreet Boys girl, always a Backstreet Boys girl.  Some things never change. 

Image courtesy: https://www.eonline.com/photos/21933/the-90s-when-the-backstreet-boys-were-boys

Dear Monday, Meet My Chandrakala

PCOD cramps for days? Not a very satisfactory day at work? Child using you as his punching bag? Chandrakala to the rescue!

What's Chandrakala, you ask? It's a decadent, ghee-fried, juicy, moon-shaped blob stuffed with sweet khoya and soaked in sugar syrup.

One bite, and you're transported straight from Gloomy Land to Ecstatically Peaceful Land. Peace? I find it in comfort food. And when it comes to comfort food, Chandrakala is right up there on my list.

I started my evening with a strong, sugar-free filter coffee at the local café inside my colony, meandered into Sri Krishna Sweets, and accidentally picked up two big, fat, juicy Chandrakalas. I then proceeded to even more accidentally devour them faster than a hungry lion attacking its innocent prey.

The highlight of my day was Chandrakala, and I've come to realise that most of my life's problems can be solved with sugar. Sugar to the rescue, all day, every day!

Moving with ease into Tuesday now, because the worst of Monday — morning, noon and night — is finally coming to a close.

Image source - https://srikrishnasweets.com/products/chandrakala?srsltid=AU7gw4X1OX5WjF0_6MdxOAnEN2c9sFK6l3mVxWYWjgY8OaNdc8aOA2BX

Creatures of Habit

After a certain passage of time, we all become creatures of habit. Case in point: tonight, when my seven-year-old insisted that I spend the night at his grandparents’ house (aka my childhood home), everything about the house put me off. From the inhalation machine that bubbled a little too much against my face (I have a blocked head) to the choice of toothpaste to the size and shape of the pillow, nothing felt right.

I just wanted to go home — the one I’ve been living in for the past three years. “I’d be more comfortable at home” was something I kept mumbling under my breath as my not-so-tiny human clung to me from the waist down like an annoying appendage I wanted to escape from, at least for the day.

Yet, here I am, lying on my pre-teen bed, thanks to his fake tears and Oscar-worthy performance of rolling around in bed, looking utterly miserable, as though I were abandoning him.

This room has witnessed a lot of teenage angst, adulting problems and a whole lot of non-issues, now that I think about it.

Coming back to the topic at hand, we really are such creatures of habit. Our definition of comfort changes over time, and we become more set in our ways, whether we like it or not.

The Only Way Out of Pain Is Through It

“The only way out is through” or “The best way out is always through”, as Robert Frost is often quoted as saying. These have been my favourite beliefs when it comes to handling grief. I've modified the thought slightly in my head, and when I quote it to my child, it becomes, “The only way out of the pain is through it.”

So, when he cribs about school, a wound on his hands or legs, or a wobbly tooth, I throw this at him without batting an eyelid.

Pain. Real, heartbreaking, soul-crushing pain. I first experienced it in 2004, when the love of my life, otherwise known as my Appuppan, passed away. The grief was maddening. I didn't know how to process it as a 17-year-old schoolgirl.

I experienced him once in my childhood home in Trivandrum and have dreamt of him endlessly ever since.

Fast-forward to 2021, when I was thrown into that whirlpool of pain once again as my 35-year-old husband passed away. When I broke the news of his death to my college bestie, she kept repeating like a parrot, “But we just saw him for lunch two days ago!”

That's exactly how I still feel to this day. I had just seen him thulping down palak paneer with aloo paratha for lunch before going to sleep.

What is pain, really? If you analyse it critically, it's simply a consequence of situations you can't control, followed by a feeling of utter helplessness. You simply have to accept it. The process of moving on takes a lifetime; however, acceptance is something you have to embrace at some point.

That's life for you — a never-ending cycle of pain. But the good news is that happiness comes in equal measure, too. You can find it in food, people, places and memories. Treasure all of them because you never really know how much time you have on Earth.

Everything is fleeting.

So, simply accept, drop the ego and keep moving forward — every single day.

Tattoos? Bring Them On. Injections? Absolutely Not!

I've had three tattoos done in the last three years, which would roughly add up to maybe eight hours, give or take, under a needle. And even then, I'm petrified of injections and syringes in a hospital.

I just had my yearly scans done to keep a check on my PCOD and was given three injections in less than two hours. What a terrifying experience indeed!

The nurses keep saying, "Take a deep breath," "Just a small pinprick," "Finished! Finished! Finished!" and so on, which only adds to your anxiety levels.

The friendly nurse standing alongside me during my mammogram wanted to know everything about me, starting with whether I was in the middle of family planning. I sighed and replied, "Yes! Since I was 10. Unfortunately, I don't have a living husband anymore."

Hospitals are a maze, both physically and emotionally. The lifts take forever to transport you up and down the floors. Nurses and doctors bombard you with old and new information, along with a volley of questions, while the pharmacy attached to the facility resembles a fish market, with a never-ending queue of customers.

I'm ready to sleep for a solid three hours now to recover from the three injections I got today. Sigh!