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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Universally aligned person, out!

Endless Swims and Silly Squabbles

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your forever brain-eater,

Gayatri

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

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

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

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

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

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

What Death Taught Me About Control

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

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

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

More realistic person, out!

The Lingering of Human Life Post-Death

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

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

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

Battlegrounds, Boundaries, and the Power of the Brew

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

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

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

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

Caffeine-addicted survivor, out!

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

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

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

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

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

Confessions of a Nonsensical Online Shopaholic: Where My Adult Money Goes to Die

I have been a victim of online shopping since time immemorial. Today, I would finally like to speak up about the atrocities committed by me—and the e-commerce sites that lure me into buying cute, shiny things. 

I hit my absolute last straw today. I ordered what looked like a nice, medium-sized Spidey pendant for myself. Instead, I received something so invisible it would escape even Superman’s eyes. It is so tiny that an ant could be best friends with it. 

I am finally ready to answer my chartered accountant and my parents. Every year when I file my taxes, they ask me that one dreaded question: "Where does all your money go, girl?" 

I would like to answer remorsefully now: "Online shopping." 

For me, online shopping is the equivalent of gambling in Vegas. I have completely lost track of the number of tops, watches, pieces of junk jewellery, and that one Chikan-work kurta set I've bought. Speaking of the kurta, it completely damaged my washing machine in a single wash because all the mirror pieces came unglued. This is what I have done ever since I gained purchasing power. 

To misquote a funny Instagram meme: "We're grown adults with adult money. We can buy and eat chocolate cake all day for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and no one can stop us." If I hadn't been dealing with weight struggles all my life, I absolutely would have spent my adult money on chocolate cake. Instead, I choose non-fattening things: clothes, curios for the house, and the occasional Masaba lipstick shade that never quite cuts it compared to the fabulous brands my sister-in-law promptly gifts me every six months. 

I digress, as always. Online shopping is the absolute bane of hard-earned adult money. Someone needs to either ban these shopping sites or ban me from shopping by taxing my existence. Either option works. 

Nonsensical online shopaholic, out!

The Boy Who Carried Me: A Tribute to My Son, Riaan

I recently rewatched that unforgettable scene from *Spider-Man 2* (2004) where Tobey Maguire's Spider-Man is gently carried through a train by regular citizens. After using every ounce of his strength to stop a runaway elevated train, he collapses from sheer exhaustion. When the passengers pull back his mask, they realize that their neighborhood hero is just a young kid. Moved by his sacrifice, they promise to keep his secret identity safe. When Doc Ock arrives to take him, those same ordinary New Yorkers step in front of the villain fearlessly, declaring that he has to go through them first. 

For some reason, my brain conjured up a deep connection between this cinematic moment and my own life. I am like that injured Spider-Man, and my son, Riaan, is the crowd of citizens who carried me when I could no longer stand. At just two years old, he suddenly had to become the "man of the house." As his "birthgiver" and "owner"—titles he jokingly uses when he wants to playfully annoy his grandmother—I can tell you he has done a brilliant job of filling those giant shoes. 

Even in the earliest days of absolute, maniacal grief, looking into my toddler's face always brought a single, fierce thought to my mind: *I must protect him with my life.* A mother’s love is fierce; she will go to any length to keep her cubs alive and thriving. My story is inextricably linked to his. Half of my healing lies in raising my child, and the other half lies in simply accepting the fragility of life. Anything can happen to anyone at any time, and my child and I are living examples of this reality. 

What a pity his father was not blessed enough to raise such a fine young man. Riaan is my very own Spider-Man, a boy who truly embodies the quote, "With great power comes great responsibility." Even with his two-year-old heart, he understood that his mother’s world had shifted, and he has done everything in his power to make life more than bearable for the two of us. 

To the no-longer-so-tiny human who calls himself "mini-you": what would I have ever done without you, Riaan? I am so incredibly proud to be your mother in this life, and hopefully, in the next.

Eight Hours of Hell

It hit me out of nowhere,

And I could feel it everywhere,

A bad case of food poisoning,

That left my mind and body no longer reasoning. 

The next eight hours were utter hell;

At the end of it, I felt like a drained-out well,

This advice played on repeat: "Chew slowly and don't gulp,"

Yet all I had been doing was gulping it to pulp,

Was it food poisoning, or was it GERD?

Either way, the lines were completely blurred,

My mind and body were no longer reasoning;

It hit me out of nowhere, and I felt it everywhere.

The Blue Whale Boundary: Protect Your Peace

I don’t chase, I attract. Men, women, children, animals—they either gravitate toward me or they don’t. I definitely don’t do any gravitating myself unless I see that same energy being reciprocated. While it’s great being Bubbles from the Powerpuff Girls for the most part, the flip side to this personality is that I’m a giver. I give so much that my family literally says, "Can you please stop it?" It is a total cut, copy, and paste situation with close friends, too. 

I take their advice seriously. When I sniff out that I’m not being taken seriously (which happens about once every three months), I blip out like a great blue whale. I sink deep into my ocean filled with bubbles and the equivalent of roses on the ocean bed. Yes, I’m a giver until I realize it’s not being reciprocated and I’m just being taken for granted. This realization usually comes late, unfortunately, but better late than never. 

There is no lack of love in my life. I have plenty of it, and I count my blessings every day. So, if you don’t come in love and peace, the front door is that way. Also, let's talk about clarity. Why don’t more fragile humans have this admirable trait? It’s hilarious watching people prance around in confusion, hesitation, doubt, and fear, knowing we could all be dead tomorrow. Anyway, peace out! Non-chasing Bubbles, out!

The Gayu Gyaan: Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Sugar

I've been told by close friends on numerous occasions that despite the absolute shit show my life has been—with a dying husband and all—I'm still incredibly positive and full of life, just like Bubbles from the Powerpuff Girls. To quote my favorite person, Shina, who once told me, "You're so full of life, positivity, boundless energy, and joy, it's hard for normal people to catch up." Cue one dozen kisses to my dearest Shina right here. 

If I deeply introspect the claim she made, I think I don't take life too seriously because I have firsthand experience with death. I know we all come with an expiry date, so there's simply no point in holding grudges or staying annoyed with someone—it's useless. During the very little time we actually have on Earth, we must behave like children: curious, inquisitive, wide-eyed, high on life, and definitely high on sugar. 

At this point, I'd like to quote an inspirational Instagram quote I read somewhere: "Why is everyone so against sugar? Who stood by you when things went wrong and you were hurting? It wasn't broccoli, that's for sure." 

To be completely honest, I hate all fruits and vegetables. I would happily eat dessert for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. However, since I am a mother raising an impressionable child, I force down large quantities of fiber just to motivate him. But when my 7-year-old isn't watching, I stuff my face with lovely, sugary goodness. On special occasions, the two of us will inhale a giant slice of blueberry cheesecake while sitting opposite each other. We smile with cheesecake smeared all over our faces and mutter, "Mmmm... so good," and he just chuckles and nods in response. 

Sugar is my secret to handling rejection, hate, stress, sadness, and low moments. Nothing and no one is worth losing your joy over at the end of the day, except your own peace of mind. Preserve it like gold (not the kind up your nose, but more like the stolen treasure inside the secret cave from Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves). 

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is my Gayu gyaan from me to you for the day: be happy. Like, genuinely happy—not sadistical-Joker happy. When you do, you automatically attract all things joyful, starting with people, things, and food. 

Unnaturally happy person aka Bubbles in real life, out!

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.