The Polycystic Nightmare: When the Soul Wants to Quit

To all my PCOD sisters, I feel you. I’ve lost weight, stopped eating, and exercised every single day without a break. I’ve cut sugar and carbs, and at this point, my soul feels completely cut up too. I am pretty sure she wants to escape my body, slap me hard across the face, and say, "Sister, please stop torturing me. Start torturing your ovaries instead!"

I’ve had countless TVS scans over the years and popped an astonishing variety of pills for the past five years. Yet, after every single scan, the radiologist says, "Yes, everything is the same. No change." Meanwhile, my wonderful gynecologist tells me, "No surgery for you, Gayatri, you are too young." Sigh.

Therefore, I live with the sensation of occasional knives poking me from the inside of my abdomen every time my pills fail to work—which happens about once every three to four months. This month is one of those times. The abdominal pain is nagging and persistent, and the back pain is so severe it would put The Hunchback of Notre Dame to shame.

I’ve lost track of how many chocolate bars I have consumed this week. My gynecologist strongly advises me to take Dolo instead of eating chocolate, but honestly, chocolate is the only thing keeping my soul alive right now. So, I choose chocolate. There is simply no method to this PCOD madness. We either wait for menopause, fight for a surgery, or wait for our souls to step out of our bodies and hit us in the face with a chair ten times. Even then, there is no respite from the pain.

Sigh, and another sigh—of the deeply painful kind. When will this discomfort finally end?

From "Food Feeder" to Finality: Why I Won't Settle for Half-Hearted Love

I was 18 years old when I bumped into my then-bestie, then-enemy, now-occasional-pinging-person—AJ. I looked like a football, and he enjoyed eating. His dream, even then, was to start a restaurant. "You can come and eat everything for free, G.B.," he declared as a young 20-something. The irony is that he is a successful restaurateur now, running chains across Hyderabad, Vizag, and Bangalore, along with being a father to an adorable little boy, and I haven't visited even one of those restaurants yet.

Before digressing further, going back to when I was an 18-year-old football, AJ was very clear: "GB, you must only marry someone who feeds you well. Every month you have to put on one kilo post-marriage; only then can you attain marital bliss. Also, don't change for anyone. You have to be accepted just as you are—a tiny, food-loving football."

I was on board with this delicious plan from day one. Luckily for me, four years later, I did meet a man like that who fed me endlessly—my late husband. He was clear about two things in life:

1.The way to this girl's heart is food.

2.The more I feed her, the more she will fall in love with me.

He was right because, years later, we got married, and I have produced a crazy child who is a mixture of both of us.

The point of this story is that I can't settle for "let's go with the flow" and "we'll see where this leads" when I once knew a man who was crystal clear that he wanted to be with me from day one. Half-hearted efforts are just not for me. While it is heartbreaking to accept in the moment, this one sad moment of realization can save you years of misery.

And that's why, ladies and gentlemen, I have been single for the past five years. I am yet to find my food feeder and the wholehearted acceptor of my crazy brains—and now, I suppose, my child's as well.End of story. Now, back to work, everyone. It's a Monday morning.

The Women Behind the Brands: Inspiration and Sisterhood at "She Builds"

I attended yet another high-octane Shakthi Circle event yesterday morning. Appropriately titled "She Builds," the event gave every woman the opportunity to discuss her professional journey, key learnings, and the challenges faced while climbing the ladder or building her brand. 

It was a supercharged morning with ideas flying left, right, and centre, giving each attendee a bird’s-eye view of what others were creating.

Rooms like these truly inspire, educate, and uplift. I have always believed that women can either be each other’s best friends or worst enemies. Women understand women like no other beings on Earth, regardless of their stage in life. 

There is an unspoken empathy, understanding, and sisterhood that can be felt within mere minutes, even when meeting for the very first time.

While the Shakthi Circle team—comprising Gehena Thilakesh and Vaishnavi Srinivasan—had positioned "She Builds" as an opportunity for brand building through storytelling, what I truly saw were the raw passion and the faces behind the brands that made each unique business stand out. 

Even four hours felt like too little time to fully grasp every unique business idea and the inspiring stories behind them. I left the room filled with knowledge and hungry for more. 

To top it all off, the icing on the cake was receiving an Oryessence gift hamper for each attendee, handed out by the chatty founder, Bharathy, herself.

A Refreshing, Raw, and Rewarding Evolution of Supergirl

As someone who grew up on a steady diet of the traditional, "goody-two-shoes" Superman—spanning from Christopher Reeve and Henry Cavill to the current actor Tyler Hoechlin—it was incredibly jarring to see a young, twenty-something Supergirl. 

In the first half of the movie, she is constantly drunk and running wild from one planet to the next with her unruly dog. Everything about her, from her unkempt hair to her drunken fighting style, felt completely wrong. I found myself wondering, Where am I? What am I watching? Who is this young girl tarnishing the glorious, hard-earned reputation of Kal-El?

However, the story truly picks up during a flashback that explores her grief. We see how heartbroken she was as a child, watching her home planet of Krypton explode and witnessing her parents slowly die right in front of her. 

This harsh upbringing explains exactly why Kara is the way she is. She is lost, lonely, and struggles to understand Superman's optimistic spirit or, as she puts it in the movie, "his young heart."

Without giving away too many spoilers, I will just say that your heart will eventually go out to Supergirl. You will witness her come into her own and emerge as a superhero just as wonderful as her cousin. She ultimately stands up for the weak and conquers evil. 

You will walk out of the theater feeling inspired and motivated to keep pushing forward in real life, just as Kara did—even if she does promise to quit her pub crawls and truly take ownership of her superpowers. This is definitely a great watch for Superman fans. Do not miss it on the big screen!

From T-Rex Wrath to Parenting Wins: A Lesson in Accountability

My period coincided with the Ambubachi Mela of Maa Kamakhya this month, according to my friend Preethi on Instagram. She shared reels with me about the festival and told me how to ease the pain spiritually and through my diet. I nodded along to everything she said, but the reality of managing a hyperactive child at home alongside a demanding corporate career is that I rarely have time to look at my own face from Monday to Friday.

Consequently, last evening, I completely snapped at my seven-year-old because he spelled scale as "skale" and pizza as "petsa." I lost my temper beyond recognition and quickly turned into a T-Rex. Seeing him shiver inside his sleeveless "I'm a trouble maker" tank top immediately made me feel guilty. Once the study session was over, I hugged him and explained that I was on my period—something all women go through month after month—and that my stomach was hurting badly. I explained that I snapped because I was mentally exhausted from work and physically drained on day four of my cycle. As I hugged him, he smiled and looked up at me with his googly eyes. I assured him that I was a bad mamma in that moment and that he should never have experienced my "period wrath."

I took ownership of my hormone-induced rage and laid out my flaws in front of him. The reason I explain every T-Rex moment to my son is so that when he loses his temper someday with his friends, family, or especially his own children, he will know how to rectify the situation quickly and restore normalcy. You are welcome, future daughter-in-law—whether you are currently in diapers, floating inside a womb, or still just an idea in outer space!

Talking endlessly with him is how I hope to raise him into a good human being who takes accountability and admits his wrongdoings. Oops! No wonder the child is a chatterbox. That is all, folks! That is my parenting 101 guide for the day for you to either follow or disagree with. After all, every monkey has their own ringmaster and circus—our kids being the monkeys in this instance, of course.

Grief, Ice Cream, and the Myth of Being "Too Young"

Yet another 3 AM wake-up today with clear glimpses of a past life: me entering Galleria Mall in Powai with my then-living husband, stuffing our faces with ice cream at Apsara. I remember taking a sneaky selfie of us chomping down our ice cream like animals. I jerked out of my slumber at that point and wondered what this dream, or rather this reminiscence of a past life, meant.

Perhaps it meant that ice cream is forever—with or without a marriage or a husband. I must continue eating ice cream and finding joy in the little things. Life goes on, and ice cream melts fast. It is better to act quickly in both life and while eating ice cream.

Five years later, I still have complete strangers look me in the face, gasp, and say, "You're too young to be widowed." What is the concept of young or old when tragedy strikes? Who even has control over such things? It is absolutely ridiculous to look someone in the eye and say something like that.

Once again, the adage "think before you speak" comes to mind. Do not just say whatever you want to someone who has lost a significant other. It is not only foolish but also extremely insensitive. If you do not have anything constructive to say, say nothing at all, mind your own business, and keep moving.

Move Over, Karan Johar: Why My Family Beats Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham

A moment of appreciation for my sisters—by marriage and by blood. They get me like no one else in the world. One good, incoherent cry session with my cousin or my sister-in-law from Dubai, where I am sobbing hysterically more than talking, is enough to revive me back to my superhero self. Even as I cry as loudly as my son and gush out incoherent mumbo jumbo, they hear everything loud and crystal clear.

My favourite food? Cooked and ready for me before I even reach their houses. The coloured kajals I love to wear, along with some junk jewellery? Already set aside and waiting for me when I visit. Superhero bobbleheads? Picked up only after a video call to confirm exactly which one I want. I am truly blessed to have this trio: two by marriage and one by birth.

Both of my brothers—my cousin and my own—absolutely hate my guts when I declare to their faces that their wives are the better versions of them. Of course, I am kidding when I say this. While their better halves understand my soul, my brothers understand the madness in my soul and why it works the way it does. All of these couples complement each other like Yin and Yang. Lucky for me, I am loved by everyone without any bias. Obviously, this overflowing love spills over to my already spoiled brat of a son as well.

When we all meet once a year, the joy that fills my heart cannot be put into words. We are a multigenerational, food-loving, loud, opinionated, screechy, and super-affectionate family. We may or may not bite, depending on the conversation you choose to have with us. I love this family—men, women, children, animals, and everything in between. Well, there goes another article into the world about loving your family. I could put Karan Johar to shame now; Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham is simply no match for us.

The Myth of the Period Goddess vs. My Reality

I have been watching reels and beautiful stories about how periods are celebrated in Indian temples, how anger is actually a feminine power tied to the goddess Kali, and how menstruating means a woman is at her strongest. While that sounds absolutely wonderful on paper, periods have done nothing but suck the wind out of my system ever since I first got them at nearly ten years old.

My symptoms grew progressively worse over the years until I was finally diagnosed with PCOD a year after I got married. The condition was discovered only after a bout of severe back pain left me completely bedridden for a week. That was when ultrasound scans revealed cysts on both of my ovaries that looked as massive as the globe does from outer space.

As a newly married woman, the nurses and lab technicians were horrified by my scans. They kept bluntly asking if I had a child yet, telling me that if I didn't, it was high time I thought about making one. Needless to say, I had a very difficult time conceiving, followed by an even bumpier pregnancy.

Of course, the bright side of that grueling journey is raising my cheeky little son. He constantly shakes his bum at me and asks for another "beating" on his backside, hilariously insisting it is a "relaxing massage" rather than a punishment.

However, returning to my PCOD, I hardly feel like a goddess or at my strongest. On the contrary, it feels like a volcanic eruption is tearing through my entire abdomen. The only thing that puts the fire out is consuming two to three kilos of chocolate ice cream, chocolate sauce, and chocolate cakes.

All the Dronis 30 pills and hot water bags in the world cannot extinguish this pain. I am forced to lie in bed all day, either sleeping or staring up at the ceiling fan. I end up having incoherent conversations with it, much like a drunk three-month-old baby who has just breastfed and is about to knock off to sleep. There are definitely no goddess feelings here—just my PCOD kicking me hard, month after month, for the past two decades.

From Barbies to Deliverables: The Subliminal Genius of the Toy Industry

There is a reason why little girls were given doll sets to play with, along with houses for those dolls to live in. The truth is, women are fantastic when it comes to decorating their homes and looking after their real-life "dollies"—their kids. As I impulsively buy yet another Minecraft T-shirt and matching co-ord set for my son, along with watches and curios for the house, I find myself going back in time. I see my four-year-old self playing with Barbie dolls, organizing their cupboards, and doing their hair, makeup, and clothes.

Zoom out to the present day, and that is exactly what I am doing with my 7.5-year-old. I dress him up like a sparkly little kuttappan day in and day out, while impulsively filling my house with shiny, bright things. It all makes so much sense 39 years later.

Going by this logic, perhaps little boys play with cars and action figures because they must learn to navigate life expertly—both with and without Google Maps—on the road, in their offices, and at home. The action figures probably represent the need to take charge, be accountable, and take responsibility for all the "dead bodies" they line up. In this day and age, "dead bodies" likely translate to deliverables at the office and commitments to their partners and families.

The toy industry is genius when you think about it. For centuries, they have been subliminally passing down the message that women are nurturers, caregivers, and life-bringers, while men must take charge, lead the way, and bring clarity to every situation—both at home and at work.

And that is my Eureka moment for the day, ladies and gentlemen. Back to work now, chop-chop!

From Tsunamis to Calm Oceans: Tales of a Boy Mom

Contrary to popular belief, little boys are in fact as sensitive as, if not more sensitive than, little girls. Mine had a full meltdown yesterday after an entire day out with his bestie. As I was giving him a piece of my mind for opening his floodgates after spending more than half a day with his favourite tiny human, I could see his bestie's face falling as well. In that moment, I perhaps looked like Cruella de Vil to the kids—the Emma Stone version, to be exact.

As I let the tornado in my mind unleash on him and watched his tear-soaked face, the mom guilt kicked in hard. But what kicked even harder was the fact that this mini-man I created was as stubborn and pig-headed as me. 

He is so set in his ways he would put a freshly tarred road to shame. At 48 inches tall, his opinions and loyalty toward his bestie are massive. His bestie's feelings are exactly the same.

As we watched them wreak havoc from one room to the next, my mom friend and I questioned each other: "Which world have we entered?", "Do you think people will curse us?", "Oh my god, I don't see them, they're definitely going to be kidnapped now," and "I can't hear my own thoughts with all their chatter, can you?" 

Our sweet little angels are so wonderful to watch from a distance but a total disaster up close. But they are our disasters, and we will not rest until we turn them into calm, mighty oceans from the tsunamis they currently are.