Let a Woman Go Wild for Lunch

Let a woman go wild for lunch and she will. I purposely didn't pack lunch from home today and rediscovered my two long-lost best friends — carbs and sugar.

Started off very healthy, of course, with a dish called a "breakfast bowl". True to its name, it had just the right amount of protein, perfect to kickstart the day, which I decided to eat for lunch today.

Then I moved on to a bakery right next door and popped in a butter chicken croissant, chilli chicken quiche, a dark chocolate cookie and a hazelnut cappuccino.

Ah, the beauty of slow lunches bang in the middle of a typical working day — what a pleasure! This world is brand new to me, thanks to my remote-working setup for the past two years, which has abruptly come to an end.

To take myself out like this on solo dates, people-watch and eat like a little piggy. Sigh and sigh! This is the life.

For the next 30-odd minutes, I'm not going to think about the pile of documents waiting for me on multiple trackers to sort out and complete.

For now, I'm a free bird, flying wild, wilder than the great blue skies can envelop me in. On that note, no wonder my personal trainer wants to quit on me.

Her question of, "Why don't you ever lose weight?" has finally been answered in one gluttonous working afternoon.

When the World Assumes Every Child Has Two Parents

My 7-year-old had to write an essay on his parents for his English test earlier this month, and he wrote about his father in the present tense.

“My father’s name is Raj and he is a musician,” he wrote.

Perhaps it was easier for him not to bother explaining to all and sundry that his father has been long gone now. When I asked him why he had written about his late father in the present tense and not in the past, he replied very logically, “But that would not have answered the question, Mumma.”

And the rest of the essay spoke about his activities with me. Mumma took precedence after that one sentence about his late father.

The world simply does not accept or include families like mine, where there is just one parent and that is the reality. I have lost track of the number of times I have walked into a Passport Seva office or an Aadhaar office trying to explain that I am the only surviving parent today and that there is no point having his father’s childhood home address on those documents.

I have to take his death certificate, our marriage certificate and my child’s birth certificate to explain our current family dynamics, and even then, his late father’s address and mobile number are firmly plastered across those documents.

For the longest time, his school ID card had “Deceased” listed under the parent’s name. After I raised the issue with his very supportive teachers at school, his current ID has no mention of a parent and simply has my mobile number on it.

I stumbled upon an Instagram post about the importance of fathers and how important it is to celebrate them while they are alive. All valid points.

But what about a very young mother with an even younger child who had to double up and be both parents? Where are the celebratory posts for a single mother? Or a single father, for that matter?

It is time the world accepted all sorts of families — families like mine. It is time to stop simply assuming that a family has both parents and asking a 7-year-old to write an essay on the topic of “Parents”.

Thank God my child is more logical than me. The very question stung me, but my little grandfather-child handled it in Rajinikanth style, as always. I’m assuming my child’s mind-voice when he read that question was, “En vazhi, thani vazhi.”

What a champ this mini-man of mine is. All heart when heart is needed and all logic when logic is needed.

I couldn’t be more proud.

The Tale of Two Offices

The tale of two offices — one of many work anecdotes from the city I have called home for most of my life.

My current office, coincidentally, happens to be on the exact same road as my very first PR office in 2012 — the erstwhile Hanmer MSL, now rebranded as MSLGROUP.

The point is, this afternoon, post-lunch, I sat inside one of the cafes on this burgeoning, bustling road to have a cup of coffee and kill my lunch break.

As I sat there staring into space and wondering why I was wasting so much money on bad-tasting filter coffee, a familiar voice and a hand slapped me from behind. I turned around and bumped into an old colleague from 14 years ago, whom I ended up chatting with for a solid 10 minutes, much to the annoyance of the friend she had come to lunch with.

I spoke endlessly, as though I had met my long-lost sister, because that's honestly who she is — home, from another time and place. She chuckled throughout our conversation and ended with, “I love how unhinged you are, Gayatri.”

I replied even faster: “Since 1987, Saloni. Since 1987.”

Home away from home — that's what all my colleagues have been, both past and present. Especially the ones from the past, when my unfiltered mouth was truly appreciated.

Aaah! To be a trainee again — what joy!

Now I'm just lucky to still be employed with the mouth on me.

Here's to many more hot coffee afternoons and unexpectedly bumping into dear old colleagues from the past.

The Artists Who Make Us Feel Like Divas

A moment of appreciation for these artists called hairstylists. I've written about this talented breed plenty of times, and today, I'd like to mention my latest one, whom I've been going to religiously ever since they first opened their salon in Adyar.

I'm talking about Bon Bomb Hair and the enterprising husband-and-wife duo who own and run it — Lucy and Siam.

Like all my hairstylists over the years, these two have also put up with all my eccentric requests — make my short hair even shorter, give me bounce with the two little twigs I have on my crown, colour it purple, colour it another shade of purple... My requests have gotten crazier and crazier with time, and Lucy has been nothing but patient with me.

During my last visit, about two or three weeks ago, I cribbed about how much I was catching a cold and cough, thanks to the length of my hair. She chuckled, obliged and then quite rightly pointed out, "Look at everyone in this salon right now and look at you. You have the shortest hair."

She took less than ten minutes, as usual, because she's an absolute pro who has been in the industry for well over a decade. By the time she was done, she looked at me and agreed, "Yes, your face is seen more clearly with this length of hair. You will feel lighter and bouncier with this as opposed to trying to grow it."

Here's to many more years of my crazy requests, with the lovely folks at Bon Bomb obliging! Here's to looking like a diva — in my head, at least — for the foreseeable future, all thanks to Lucy.

The Little Man Who Never Let Me Down

To say I haven't had a man in my house or in my life in the past five years would be grossly incorrect, because my seven-year-old mini-man has shown me some solid spine well beyond his years. So far, he's not flaky, not inconsistent, not unreliable, and he's a little man of his word.

There's not a single teacher or parent who has met him who has told me a single bad thing about his nature. His preschool teachers told me that he could sense those who were slightly differently abled around him, and he would go out of his way to help them.

I remember watching this four-year-old take the stage as the narrator for his very first play. Instead of delivering his lines first, he dragged the little boy who wore the same costume as him up beside him, made sure he was standing alongside him, and then delivered his lines.

I probably dropped a single tear in that moment.

We've seen a world of pain and happiness together over the last five years, and I couldn't be more proud of the little boy he's growing up to be.

He senses sadness in me simply by watching my face. Of course, he's a tornado as well — jumping up and down door frames all day long, squishing and wasting bars of soap inside buckets of water, and getting up to a laundry list of similar monkey behaviour.

Even then, my boy is more of a man than a slew of inconsistent, flaky, unreliable "gems" I've met over the past three years.

Cheers to being Riaan's proud mumma, every single day for the rest of my life.

Still Waiting for My Angel

How relevant is *Iris* by the Goo Goo Dolls even today? I think we’re all waiting for an immortal angel who chooses to give up his or her magical life to experience the vulnerable, painful and beautiful rawness of human love.

That’s all we really want — an angelic partner who gives us undying love.

I’ve experienced that loss in love twice, in different intensities, over the years — first when my grandfather passed away, and then when I lost my husband.

There’s a deep void that I feel in all the moments I don’t fill with work and mommy duties. Perhaps I work just so I don’t have to feel their absence — because it is deafeningly loud over the weekends.

It’s a basic human need to have a loving partner by your side, and I feel only half-complete in the middle of all the chaotic noise of work that I somehow create for myself even beyond office hours.

To love and be loved — it’s such a simple and beautiful feeling.

I wonder why people don’t want to open up anymore. What are they really scared of?

I’m still waiting and still hoping for my angel to heal the wreckage that is my heart.

Until then, there’s hot chocolate.

Actions Speak Louder

What do people really want?

Are they looking for a genuine human connection, or just another phone number to add to an already overflowing contact list? It’s a question that has perplexed me for close to three years now.

It’s funny how people assume you can’t see through their intentions by their actions and words. Especially someone like me, who has lived two parallel lives — all before turning 40.

I’ve simply stopped expecting and started accepting.

Actions > words.

If the actions don’t match the sweet words, it’s a no-go.

Where and why have some of the most basic human traits suddenly disappeared — stability, consistency and reliability? Is it really too much to hope for these things?

My answer, for the moment, is: I guess so.

All I know is this: if you put bad karma out into the world, it has a funny way of coming back to haunt you — and when it does, it rarely knocks gently.

So, good luck with all those sweet words backed by zero action.

They’ll only get you so far.

Every Tattoo Tells a Story — Find an Artist Who Understands Yours

Every tattoo tells a story, and it’s important to find an artist who understands yours.

I’ve been going to Rinchen from Iruzemi Tattoo Studios since 2023. He studies you as a person, asks you why you want to get the tattoo, and then goes ahead and does complete justice to the design. He interprets your ideas beyond your wildest imagination and elevates a basic concept into a masterpiece.

My Tree of Life idea was no different.

He added a bird to represent freedom and change, moon phases to represent change, cycles and new beginnings, and even incorporated mandala elements in the form of the circular, symmetrical patterns around the tree and trunk. The repeated geometric and floral detailing gives the tattoo its beautiful radial symmetry. He also added a piece of the tree falling away to represent broken pieces.

It took him just 1.5 hours to complete the entire tattoo on me — a record-breaking speed for both him and me! He told me I took it pretty well. Apparently, third time’s the charm. 

I highly recommend Rinchen and Iruzemi Tattoo Studios for all your tattoo dreams. The studio is clean and neat, with a warm, cosy ambience and lovely music playing in the background at all times.

Here’s to finding artists who don’t just ink your ideas, but understand the stories behind them. 

Vishwanath and Sons Review

How many times is Suriya going to play the billionaire philanthropist playboy? Sanjay Vishwanathan — was that his name in Ghajini too? 

Radhika's portrayal of Sanjay's anxious mother is top-notch, while Mamitha Baiju's performance felt a little over the top — although perhaps that was intentional, given that she plays the unrequited, one-sided lover.

All in all, Vishwanath and Sons is a sweet, one-time watch — light, breezy and quite forgettable. The movie showed a lot of promise in exploring the whole single-father angle. Instead, us grown-up 90s girls are treated to a still-handsome Suriya, who has clearly aged like fine wine. 

The three kheer kodoms I ate while watching the movie are definitely giving me acidity now. No wonder I'll always remain a kheer kodom, despite all the backbreaking cardio and weight training I do all week long. 

A family drama with a lot of drama and a good amount of comedy — at least as long as Radhika is alive and kicking in the movie — is how I'd sum up Vishwanath and Sons.

Image sourced from https://www.imdb.com/title/tt35836025/mediaindex/

All Heart First, Work Closely Behind

A moment of appreciation for us agency boys and girls who rolled up our sleeves, did a lot of dirty work across clients and verticals, and somehow managed to make friends for life along the way.

We didn't look at colleagues as competitors or as people we had to "one-up". We looked at them as people in the same boat as us.

Perhaps I'm biased because the first ten years of my career were spent in agencies before I moved to corporates for the last five. Perhaps I'm not a true-blue corporate employee after all. I'm still that agency girl who likes building interpersonal connections across the entire organisation, from the office boy to the agency head.

I've carried these same ideologies into the big, bad world of corporates over the last five years. Perhaps people wonder why I talk endlessly without shutting up, and perhaps the canteen boy is surprised when I ask him what he has studied.

I owe this eccentric personality to my agency upbringing. Or perhaps it's just my family. Or perhaps it's a mixture of both.

All heart first, followed closely by work.

Work is never-ending, but what's important is knowing the people behind each of those documents. Putting a name to every face, finding out their stories and understanding the person behind the designation.

I suddenly recall an introductory call my team and I had with a senior leader who was based in the U.S. He asked each person to introduce themselves. When he came to me, I said:

"My grandmother told my mother to make me a lawyer because I talk too much. By that logic, I'm in the right business of people. I still talk too much, and perhaps that's why I chose Corporate Communications and Public Relations as my calling."

Every human has a story, and every story needs to be written about at some point.

And I think this is why I do what I do, despite the hard days.

When the Baywatch Theme Song Woke Grandpa Up

I just stumbled across the remastered version of the *Baywatch* theme song and, for the entire two minutes, I was transported back to my grandparents' house in Trivandrum, next to my sleeping grandfather, whose eyes would pop wide open the moment the *Baywatch* theme played on TV.

Suddenly, all his grandchildren were sitting alongside him in the TV room, staring at the washboard abs and curvaceous bodies of David Hasselhoff, Pamela Anderson, Yasmin Bleeth and David Charvet.

Perhaps my love for the ocean and water began here — staring at these gorgeous men and women saving lives one evening at a time and making it all look so, so dreamy.

I wanted to wear that red one-piece. I still haven't found it, by the way. I own a swimsuit in every other colour, though. And I definitely don't look like Pamela Anderson or Yasmin Bleeth because I grew up on a steady diet of ghee-laden meat and carbs. So that's that.

I would not dare say "better late than never" because there is only one Pamela Anderson and one Yasmin Bleeth. I'll let them have ocean supremacy for life.

Coming back to my grandfather now — a retired sailor who was enjoying raising one grandchild after another and who thoroughly enjoyed his all-day siestas because he was a poor sleeper at night.

It was hilarious how the *Baywatch* theme song would slap him wide awake and make him super attentive. I wonder who he was looking at — Pamela Anderson or Yasmin Bleeth. I guess I'll never know now.

All I'm left with are crazy-happy memories of a quirky old man who never left my heart. Such a pity he couldn't be around to meet any of his great-grandchildren.

The Guilt of Not Being There

I saw a Filipino advertisement this morning while scrolling through Instagram about a single mum who is a nurse and her son, Mikey. The little boy is left to his own devices to get ready for school, do a school project and even rehearse his lines for a fancy-dress competition, without his mother because she keeps getting called in for ad hoc duties due to the nature of her job.

Other mums who actually pick up and accompany their children to school keep passing remarks at him, calling him "poor boy", "Where is your mother?", "Your shirt buttons aren't done properly. How can you go to school like this?" and so on.

By the end of his fancy-dress competition, his overworked mother actually makes it to school to pick him up, and they are seen embracing each other in a tight hug after an entire day of absence, starting from his breakfast onwards.

It hit me so hard because I realised that when my boy was just a little over three years old, I had to rejoin work, and he had to fend for himself emotionally, without a mother who was truly present.

Of course, my parents really stepped in during that time to raise him, while I was just a corporate slave drowning myself in work, simply to distract myself from the grief of losing my husband.

I wasn't there for my boy emotionally when he needed me the most because I wasn't there for myself. I wallowed in so much self-pity that I couldn't see beyond my own nose. I couldn't even function as a whole human being. How could I possibly be a mother?

I was pretty useless for a good year. Maybe two.

The guilt of being emotionally absent from my three-year-old is something that kills me even now. Which is probably why I go out of my way today to entertain him, because I see the years I lost with him.

I hope he forgives me.

Or, better yet, I hope he doesn't remember those mad, grief-filled days of mine when I would wake up screaming from an afternoon nap.

To Staying Young and Wild, With or Without a Partner

Everyone and their grandmothers advised me to try dating apps the moment my husband passed away. And guess what? Everyone and their grandmothers are exactly who and what I found.

There are the scammers who claim they'll come and visit you in a week. Then there are the enthu cutlets who actually do fly down to see you in a week. There are the endless texters who "want to go with the flow" at 40+, and there's everything in between as well.

I'm sure there are wonderful, honest-to-God lovely people out there too, whom I've met and with whom I've either remained friends or mostly lost touch. Because, let's face it, this is a dating app, not "let's build a collection of random friends" like a Barbie doll set where the entire collection is complete.

A job, a man, a house and a baby will all find you when you're ready and when it's absolutely the right time. Until then, I'm off the apps for good. Swiping right and left is just not for me.

For those who have found love using these impossible apps, good for you. I'm genuinely happy for you. As for the rest of us, let us also remain happy, because the skies and the oceans are still a lovely blue and the whole world remains within our reach to explore.

All we have to do is pack our bags and get out.

On that note, such lovely gyaan I give day in and day out while I hardly practise any of it myself. But it's on my bucket list, starting this year, to go back to doing wild and youthful things — such as standing in the middle of a 1,000-person concert and singing along with the band on stage, maybe getting on a bike again and hopefully not needing pinhole surgery for a busted shoulder, and many more demented things such as these.

Here's to staying young and wild forever, with or without a partner!