The Social Animal's Guide to Poolside Fury

All Indians are my brothers and sisters—except for 20 to 25 of them who are definitely not.I am that annoying aunty on the train who shares her Jim Jam biscuits and asks nosey questions about where you are travelling and who lives there. Add to this personality trait a 16-year career where I simply must interact with countless people a day to get work moving, and it is safe to say I love people. 

The term "social animal" was clearly invented for me. I am social to the point that my older brother tells me to pipe down. He once mentioned, out of sheer frustration, "The moment your sermon is done, your son's begins. There is absolutely no peace in this house."

Anyway, I love people, as long as they are talking to me and answering all 10,000 of my questions.

However, throw those very same people into a swimming pool along with their tiny humans, and "hell hath no fury like a woman scorned." My colony has a beautiful swimming pool that was built close to two years ago. It is the first chlorine-free, ozone-treated, semi-Olympic-sized pool in the city. I have interacted with people from all over the city inside this pool.

But on a weekend morning—at 6:00 AM to be exact—I am not in a chatty mood. I like my peace and quiet during my one-hour dip. Sadly, this slot during summers in Chennai is absolutely the worst time to go for a swim. The pool looks like a Kandivali local train, with literally hundreds of people bumping into you and apologizing profusely afterward.

The decibel levels on those tiny humans are so loud that I feel bad—for less than half a second—for having added to our nation's destructive tiny-human population. There is no peace during my nirvana time. I am bumped into a hundred times by first-time swimmers and learners. To their "I'm so sorry," I reply with profuse coughing because half the pool is inside my lungs by then.

Ah, humans. Wonderful creatures—except inside a swimming pool. Sigh!

Here is hoping for a more peaceful swim session next Sunday morning. Until then, don't pee in the pool, and pull your swimming costume down over all your wobbly bits.

The Soundtrack of My Heart: From Goth Rock to Soulful Melodies

Myles Kennedy, King, Arjun Kanungo, and my late husband. I clearly have a thing for good-looking musicians who make music with all their heart. Now, had my late husband been alive and read that first sentence, he would have had a heart attack. He hated pop music—at least in front of the outside world. We did a Backstreet Boys marathon all night once, and he swore me to secrecy to never reveal that night to anyone he knew.

Music is such a beautiful way to express emotions and make people fall in love. I fell in love with my late husband's guitar even before I understood his personality. Luckily for me, both the man and the machine turned out to be pure gems. That was my first and last early-20s hormonal decision that turned out absolutely A-ok.

Coming back to Myles Kennedy, King, and Arjun Kanungo now: what voices, what faces, what music, and what lyrics. I fall in love every time I play these men on Spotify. It has been love at first hearing for me. 

Oh, and Chester Bennington—pinch me for forgetting to add his name right at the beginning! That anxiety-ridden voice and those on-point lyrics touched the soul of every '90s kid. I wouldn't start my homework if I hadn't heard Hybrid Theory or Meteora from end to end. 

By college, I pretended to be too cool for their music and moved on to heavier metal bands like Iron Maiden, Metallica, Def Leppard, Megadeth, Guns N' Roses, Within Temptation, and Aerosmith.

I think it's safe to say I love musicians. Who wouldn't? I would attend all the local Unwind Center concerts in the city dressed in all black—a long black skirt with a tight black tank top, black nail polish, and goth jewellery. Yes, I was quite a handful as a teenager. God bless my parents' souls even today for having put up with me.

Anyway, coming back to the topic at hand. Soulful musicians—they are everyone's cup of coffee, I think. Sigh!

The Shoes We Don't Try to Fill

Yet another Starbucks morning with my bean, but today felt different. I spoke to him at length about his father and why Starbucks has suddenly become my favourite cafe over the last 5 years. 

At 7.5 years old, he asks all the right questions and listens so attentively that a wet sponge would be put to shame. I told him to remember his late father with love and respect, even if he doesn't remember him well.

"What if you suddenly die, maamaa?" he asked, with worry in his beady-eyes and voice.

"Why would I, darling?" I asked.

"Because I already have a father who is dead."

I had to explain his father's life choices that led to his freak and untimely demise, and assure him that neither of us will follow in his footsteps. We will only take away everything he did right—starting with his hard work, intelligence, and love for family. 

As I spoke about my beloved late husband to our son, I felt a sense of relief in my heart, as if someone were pouring buckets of ice cubes on my chest.

The entire conversation, which started at Starbucks and ended at Lifestyle's watch counter, felt extremely therapeutic for me. 

Fathers play such an important role in shaping your personality. Mine made me sharp yet loving, hardworking yet warm, aggressive yet all heart, and razor-sharp focused both at work and at home. 

I can never fill his father's shoes, and I don't even want to try. But I try every day to pass all of his work ethics and values on to him. For everything else, there is always Starbucks and its ambience, which feels like home—or rather, feels like my late husband. 

From Gayatri to Riaan: A Chennai Rite of Passage

Chennai, my sweet filter kaapi and jasmine flower smelling city. For as long as I lived away from you for almost 8 years of my marriage, I missed you with my dear life. As long as I lived here during my school, college and work years I've faught with auto annas and never made peace with the hot and cold.

I was binding my son's Tamil textbook today and noticed a misspelling of his name by his teacher - Riyaan Bhattacharya. I wonder who Riyaan is and I'm sure Riaan will also wonder who Riyaan is. It's a story for his college drinking days and perhaps corporate parties where he can either crib or cry about why his teachers always misspelt his name and made him sound like a girl-boy, while infact he is only a boy.

I chuckled as I bound his textbook because there were 10 Gayathri's in my class and no one spelt their name as Gayatri like mine. Notice the lack of the H. There's no H in my name. However for as long as I remember - classteachers across school and college and some friends and colleagues even today write and pronounce my name is Gayathri - with the jarring H.

I've made peace with it, because I am a daughter of the city. How dare I spell my name as Gayatri? Where's the H thambi? Put H immediately, no questions asked. Okay anna, thambi, akka and ayyah, I oblige and mentally salute my city's unreasonable request.

My heart has truly broken only when office birthday parties and farewell parties spelt my name as Gayathri with the H on all my cakes. That's a tragedy now because namakku soru dhaan mukkiyam. I would cut the cake into 100 pieces and give the H piece away to somebody else.

Anyway, coming back to Riyaan Bhattacharya now. Welcome to generational trauma my son. Passed down from the city I was raised over to you.

One day, we'll raise glasses and chuckle about it. For now, I'll pretend I didn't see anything and go along with your teachers misspelling of your name. 

Nutellas, Assemble!

There is greater strength in letting go than in holding on for dear life. This applies to people who are both dead and alive in your life. Accept different perspectives, however hard they are to digest, and just keep moving forward, doing what you do. 

With time, you will eventually be able to look back at that moment in your life with sadness, regret, or happiness. But whatever you do, do not hold on unless the effort is reciprocated.There is a pain greater than death in this world, and it comes from people who are alive. Even if you do not agree with what they say, just nod and move along for your own sanity and peace of mind. 

All you can do is be your wonderful, kind self. That is it. Do not expect the same kindness back. Do not expect people to return your affection either.These are things I have learned the hard way over time. 

It is okay to feel that boulder in your chest every now and then. Let the feeling settle, and then pass. Allow yourself to process it. But letting go is an absolute must.I think only the nicest people in the world feel so deeply. 

I am definitely a nice person—a wholesome jar of unhealthy Nutella, to be exact. Some days, the hazelnuts feel heavier in the spread, and some days, the spread just spreads evenly on the toast. 

For all the in-between days, we cling to our sugary sweetness and let that bitter gourd feeling pass. Nutellas, assemble! We will eventually save the world with our sweetness. Today is just not that day.

The After-School Hurricane

High as a kite,

An unguided missile and a hijacked flight,

These were my son's emotions,

Post-school, confirmed by his restless motions,

Even seven hours of school,

Can't bring down that boy or make him lose his cool.

What will tire him?

I wondered on a whim,

How can I get him to stop using me as his bouncy castle?

It is definitely a hassle,

As I try my best to unwind,

After a tiring day at work that sucked out all my wind,

But here he was, my boy wonder,

Thrashing around the house to loot and plunder,

High as a kite,

An unguided missile and a hijacked flight.

Temporary Problems, Forever Cheesecake

Your feelings can never be faked,

In front of a decadent blueberry cheesecake.

She's seen me in tears,

Over the years,

Over various non-problems of mine,

Which go away after 24 hours of cribbing and whining.

No problems are too big,

The moment you transform yourself into a blueberry cheesecake eating pig.

I say pig because I eat my share,

And my son's leftovers without a care.

1.5 cheesecakes down, life suddenly has meaning,

My eyes are no longer gleaning.

The tears dry up,

The heartbreak is gone thanks to a creamy gulp.

Sugar rush has been achieved,

The momentary pain has been relieved.

For cheesecake is forever,

Temporary problems, they come and go, whenever.

Your feelings can never be faked,

In front of a decadent blueberry cheesecake.

The Chennai Paradox

Extreme the weather in Chennai,

And extreme the moods of the people in Chennai,

In summers, we complain about the heat,

During the monsoons, if one drop of water falls on our head we bleat,

No weather can satisfy us,

We're always making a fuss,

Either about Veyil Kālam,

Or Maḻaikkālam,

The rain Gods,

And the summer Gods,

Probably look at us Chennaiites,

And pity their plight,

Do we rain or shine,

They wonder while watching us from cloud nine,

We drink filter kaapi in the heat,

And Jigarthanda in the monsoons to stay upbeat,

We're a strange lot,

Our moods fluctuate between cold and hot,

Extreme the weather in Chennai,

And extreme the moods of the people in Chennai.

Rabid Icecream Eating Mammals

Too many icecream flavours have been had,

My soul finally feels super glad,

The heat inside and outside, 

Makes me want to hide,

The Ibaco server looked at me like I was mad,

For, as mentioned before, too many scoops have been had,

Just as he'd settle into serving the next customer,

My son and I would attack the counter like two road-runners,

Spoon in my hand,

And icecream smeared on his face like a baby vampire, together we looked like an uncouth band,

Cup and after cup,

Without pausing even once to hiccup,

We turned into rabid icecream eating animals,

The two most ferocious land mammals,

Too many icecream flavours have been had,

My soul definitely feels super glad.

Bondas, Nirvana, and the 100th Slam-Hug

Bondas. Doesn't the very word make your mouth water? Bondas drowning inside white chutney and six to seven generous droplets of sambar. Watering even more, right?

Bondas, for me, ladies and gentlemen, are not a mere plate of deep-fried carbs. No, they are an emotion, a journey, a state of happiness, and my place of nirvana. There's practically nothing that can come between my face and my plate of two bondas. Okay, I'm lying—three bondas. (Four if it's been a very bad week or I just want to be a gluttonous pig.)

This humble staple can be found in households across India under various guises, starting with Mumbai's Vada, Aloo Tikki, Ragda Patties, Alu Chop, Mysore Bonda, and so on. 

The very same dish, with the very same emotion, across India. Comfort on a plate on a rainy Tuesday, a hot Thursday, or a lazy weekend at home.Of course, the weighing scale goes up by a crazy, full kilo the next morning, but who cares?

 

You're happy from the deep corners of your tired soul, you're recharged for the crazy week that's waiting for you to conquer, and you suddenly have the strength for your son's 100th bone-crushing slam-hug. 

Life is good with a spicy plate of deep-fried bondas. I just can't complain. Grab your plate today and attain zen-like peace.

Take the Selfie, Sister: You Earned It

Are you really a narcissist if you take one selfie after getting nice and dolled up like a sparkling Christmas tree over the weekend, simply for record-keeping? Is that really such a bad thing? 

Through the weekdays, I look like a frazzled, homeless donut in flamingo-printed pink and teal blue boxer shorts with a variety of t-shirts (getting very specific with the details now so that you understand my selfie obsession). 

Therefore, dolling-up occasions are few and far between. An outing with my son—click, click. An outing with a girlfriend for dinner and drinks—clickity-click. Meeting family from all corners of the world once a year—an infinite number of clicks. See what I mean?

How does record-keeping of gorgeous moments with close friends and family fall under the bracket of narcissism? Take selfies; use your discretion. Taking a selfie a day starting from the toilet to your living room and into your kitchen? Mmm, you have a selfie obsession; maybe fewer clickities for you.

Also, I've been a fat cow practically all my life. Under some stroke of good luck and a very vigorous personal trainer, I've discovered collarbones. Cue the emotional crying now. I didn't even know there were bones here. What a revelation! 

Therefore and hence, of course, I will take selfies to capture the above-mentioned bones. Who knows how long they will exist? Take selfies, sister; you deserve them. 

More power to this selfie-obsessed generation. May we know them, may we be them, and may we applaud them—today and everyday. Mic drop!