Sun, Sand, and Seafood: Our Blissful Escape to Poovar

Beautiful, green, and sultry Poovar is the perfect quick getaway with family if you love seafood, sun, sand, pristine seas, and boat rides. All you can do here is eat, sleep, do a mild amount of sightseeing, and repeat.

Our holiday is coming to a close in less than 24 hours, and my son and I are already feeling the Monday morning blues. We checked in at Isola Di Cocco, a charming Ayurvedic beach resort, late Thursday afternoon. We have been eating, swimming, and sleeping ever since we arrived. The weather makes you want to just snooze because it is burning hot outside.

We indulged in a lovely boat ride around the breezy island of Poovar on Day 2 and visited the stunning Aazimala Shiva Temple on Day 3. Now, it is almost time to head back home. Cue the sad music!

The staff at Isola Di Cocco are warm and friendly. The food is scrumptious, and the pool beckons you after every meal to melt away all those extra calories. I am going back home three kilos heavier in body, but three kilos lighter in spirit. I highly recommend Poovar and Isola Di Cocco for anyone looking for a quick getaway from the mundane Monday-through-Friday drill.

I have lost track of the number of glasses of sweet and salty lime soda I have had, along with Uncle John's ice cream and every variety of fried vegetarian and non-vegetarian delicacy. I am off to sleep now for an hour before my child knocks me on the head with his swimming goggles and drags me back to the pool. Goodnight, everyone! What bliss it is to enjoy heavy afternoon siestas after indulgent seafood meals.

Burp, snore, splash, repeat!

Endless Plates and Infinite Love: Welcome to My Family

My family shows love through food. The more you are fed, the more you are loved. Personally, I am not just loved; I am doted on and endlessly pampered, treated like the youngest even when the next generation sits right next to us, nibbling on all that gorgeous food.

Yesterday, I visited the house I grew up in. My uncle (Mohan uncle) and cousin (Swaroop chettan) had already left for the U.S. for the World Cup, but they left their presence behind in spirit—in the form of a mountain of gifts, food, and a dream cake chocolate tub. As I ate my way through the decadent spread of fish fry, prawn fry, chicken curry, fried rice, pappadam, and payasam, I probably shed an invisible half-tear. I pictured my cousin, his family, and my uncle sitting at the table, eating along with the rest of us.

However, the food was so spectacularly good that I had no time to feel sorry for them—or myself—for missing out on that shared time. Instead, I did exactly what my late grandparents trained me to do since I was four years old: eat like a pig. I truly wished I had two stomachs for breakfast and lunch yesterday.

My cousin, Sowmia, has turned out to be even more loving and suffocatingly hospitable than my late grandmother. She doesn't sit still or sit down to eat with the rest of us until everyone is fed and overfed, and until every last pappadam and puri reaches the table from the kitchen.

Welcome to my home and my family—where the food never ends, and the love is infinite. Yesterday afternoon, when I mentioned feeling lonely without a husband, my mother pointed to the army sitting around me and said, "You have all of us. You will never be alone.

The Confessions of a Workaholic: Why I Can't Stand the "Sabbatical Bro"

I'm probably going to get a lot of hate for writing this piece, but here goes nothing: I don't like people who are on perennial sabbaticals and have no major life goals to conquer and achieve. Before you hit the close button on this piece, hear me out.

I didn't take a sabbatical from work after I delivered my child, while nursing him during the wee hours of the morning, on my husband's death anniversary, on his birth anniversary, or even on the day we met when he was alive. Add to that, my 35-year-old husband dropped dead at work. It's safe to say, and I think it's been clearly established: I'm a bloody workaholic. It is not something I admit with shame or pride; I simply state hard facts. This is who I am.

I've rebelled against bosses and work cultures that don't fit in with my core ideologies. That being said, I'm grateful for the 16 years I've put in across various organisations, industries, and sectors. I am grateful and blessed to have worked with some of the sharpest minds across industries, and I still have a lot to learn and a lot to achieve. I don't want to retire at 60. I have wonderful uncles in my family to look up to who haven't stopped sailing and haven't retired from their merchant navy careers well into their 70s. (I'm talking about you, Aji maama—I'm sure you're reading this!)

So no, I simply hate people without goals who are sitting tight at home with zero aspirations for themselves. Stay-at-home mums are not included in this list; they have aspirations, and those are tied to their kids. I was raised by a strong stay-at-home mum, so I'm leaving this crowd aside when I state that I don't like people without goals.

The next category of people I don't like are the braggers. Five years of work experience, one unheard-of award somewhere, and suddenly they think they're Elon Musk. Out! Just get out of my face before I punch you on the nose and hand it to you to get stitched back up in an ENT ward. Just get out into the world and throw yourself hard at work.

Take your sabbaticals post-6 in the evening and run multiple side hustles. Financial freedom, regardless of gender, is priceless. It simply gives you peace of mind and buys you all the luxuries in the world. So why deny yourself that?

I am ready to give a TED talk now on the various categories of "sabbatical bros and sisters" I've met through the years. The PPT is in my head; I just need someone to push me out there, let me crack a bunch of offensive jokes, and then I can breathe in peace.

Workaholic out! Holiday mode on (but only for 4 days).

From Baby Whale to Waka Waka: My Post-Dessert Fitness Plan

What a time for Shakira to drop "Dai Dai", the official anthem for the 2026 FIFA World Cup, looking the way she does—smoking hot at 49! Hips that look like they can melt butter and a face that can make angels take off their robes along with their wings, saying, "Join us!" 

I repeat, what a time for Shakira to drop "Dai Dai" because I'm right in the middle of a mini family vacation, chomping on every variety of dessert, dates and junk food and looking like a baby whale. I sniff and put on 500 grams, another two sniffs and my weighing scale will probably break.

 

I'm so ashamed to look the way I do—a small podgy balloon—in the face of a very fit and shapely 49-year-old Shakira. Being a decade younger than her, I'm motivating myself to skip dinner for the rest of the week while thumping down half a jar of Nasi and Mee's Milo Tiramisu and one gigantic triangular piece of Toblerone. 

But from tomorrow, after I finish eating all these sugars, I will skip dinner and soon, in another decade, I will definitely look like Shakira. 

In her words, "You knew from the day you were born, That here, in this place, you belong, You've been this brave all along, What broke you once made you strong."

My Pillars of Strength: A Note of Gratitude

A moment of appreciation for this couple who have quietly stood by me as I fell apart and slowly pieced my life back together bit by bit—my big brother, Arjun, and my sister-in-law, Vandana. There have been countless moments where I have been irrational and griefy, and they have quietly just let me be. They are both experts at gauging my expressions and have held me up, literally and figuratively, either in words or action.

While the whole world sees a griefy widow, I think this couple experienced my heartbreak along with me. They just understand my need to breathe Starbucks air now and then, eat a Naturals ice cream, or just be dramatic whenever I choose to be. They see the gaping void in my life, which I try to fill with a mountain of work.

I am currently at a stage in my life where I am a chatty Preeti from Dil Se, all set to marry Amar, who is in love with a toxic, self-destructive, terrorist Meghna. But here is the catch: there is no Amar or Meghna in sight for me. I am happy to do the "Jiya Jale" dance on a boat all by myself, thank you very much—wet saree and all.

And before you ask, no, I still haven't figured out what "Munthiri muththoli chindhikko Vanjani varna chundhari vaavae Thaanginnakkath thakadhimiyaadum thanganilaavae hoi" stands for. I digress as always; if distraction had a face, I would be it. Blessed to have this wonderful couple in my life and all the giant bars of Toblerone they bring every year, along with sweet liquors and dates of exotic varieties.

Embracing the Cracks: The Art of Owning My Grief

I have been owning my grief since 2021, and I think I am pretty much killing it—especially the owning part. From Starbucks takeaway boxes to drink nights with friends and family, everything is a constant reminder of the life I once had.

I am my grief, and my grief is me. It is similar to the scene in The Avengers when Hulk confesses to Captain America seconds before stopping a giant flying monster with one punch: "That's my secret, Cap: I'm always angry." It is impossible to forget a habit of 13 years in just five. Time definitely heals—I can confirm this—but it does not make you forget.

I am cursed with the memory of an elephant (the kind found only in the deep rainforests of the Amazon, I presume) because I forget nothing. I still remember the scent and aroma of the food my grandmother fed me when I was four years old. Therefore, it is mission impossible for me to forget a life I spent 13 years trying to build.

Everything I am today—the multiple hair colour changes ranging from blue to purple to cherry purple, and the tattoos—is a reminder of the person I have become. I am still bright and sparkly on the outside, but more like a ceramic piece restored through Kintsugi (or Kintsukuroi). This centuries-old Japanese art form fixes broken pottery with a special lacquer dusted with powdered gold, silver, or platinum. Instead of hiding the cracks, this philosophy treats the breakage and repair as a beautiful part of the object's history. Please note: I am Hulk, and I am Kintsugi.

I am not sure how many humans openly admit to their flaws, but it is the first thing I do whenever I meet someone new. This is especially true if I like them and want to incorporate them into my life. It is best to lay out all the negatives first and observe whether they want to bolt and run or if they want to stay and uncover more dazzling bits of my personality—like my two-decade-old junk jewellery collection. 

The living are strange. They live as if they will live forever. I call the living "strange" because I have been both. I died the day my husband did, and I have taken multiple births since he passed, trying to make sense of the barrage of work disguised as school, office, and anything else that catches my fancy.

So yes, I have been owning my grief since 2021. I am probably killing it because I allow it to wash over me whenever it wants to, knowing the feeling will eventually pass on its own. That is the only way you can beat grief: you never truly can, so you simply have to accept it.

The Odyssey: A Cinematic Masterpiece That Hits Close to Home

You know what is worse than widowhood? Being a wife in waiting for two decades, similar to what Queen Penelope endured while waiting for Odysseus after the Trojan War. I could truly feel the lonely wife's pain, as well as the anxiety of her son, Telemachus, who yearns to know everything about a father he has never seen.

These characters connected deeply with me. I, too, am a wife without a husband. Unlike Penelope, however, I know he is never coming back. I also have a son who asks curious questions about a father he only vaguely remembers from when he was a two-year-old baby.

I could feel the pain of Odysseus as he tries his very best to save his crew from mythical monsters and angry gods, starting with the Lotus Eaters, the Sirens, and Scylla and Charybdis. After a decade of fighting at Troy, Odysseus faces another exhausting decade at sea, doing his best to get his crew home. He and his men anger the sea god, Poseidon, by blinding his son, the Cyclops Polyphemus. This enrages Poseidon, who ensures that Odysseus’s journey home is plagued with disasters.

The amount I missed my late grandfather as I watched this gorgeous Nolan wonder on-screen is hard to put into words. Had he been alive, I am pretty sure he would have looked me in the face, grunted, and said, "Rubbish. None of this exists."

From a queen's agony as she wonders if she is widowed and must remarry, to the anxiety of a son who wants to learn whether his father is alive, and finally to the husband who yearns to go back to his family while being stranded on Calypso’s island—where he is held by the nymph Calypso for seven years—I could feel all of their anxiety and pain for three hours.

The Odyssey is for anyone who is curious about Greek mythology, is a Nolan fan, or just wants to be enthralled by the wonder of larger-than-life storytelling. The Odyssey is an all-heart movie. Do not miss it.

The Saturday Morning Obstacle Course: Uncles, Kids, and Swimming Pool Chaos

There is nothing more dangerous than Indian uncles trying to unwind in a swimming pool, except perhaps little children. If you pit the two against each other, you will find yourself with a draw; no one wins, and everyone around both species loses.

The ones I bumped into this morning looked and sounded like frogs. They grunted and stared at me with annoyed, beady eyes each time I crossed their path, while the kids kept taking horizontal laps as I tried to swim vertical ones. The whole affair lasted for a full hour. By the end of the swim, I felt exhausted but happy, as if I had just finished a vigorous game of Minecraft or Super Mario—constantly maneuvering around objects appearing out of nowhere. Instead of dodging video game bombs, I was avoiding bubbly farts and the occasional patch of diluted pee, while the actual gamers were replaced by the chaotic crowd in the water.

Post-swim, my brother had to navigate unruly road traffic—specifically Gen Z "champions" slithering like snakes on their mopeds. I turned to him and confirmed that this was exactly what I had just experienced in the pool for the last hour. Indian swimming pools are often flooded with more uncles and kids than actual water; tackling them is a massive feat, especially first thing on a Saturday morning.

Shadows on the Slopes of Raheja Vihar

I still remember that first morning walk I took a week after my 35-year-old husband abruptly passed away on a busy Monday afternoon—December 6th, 2021, at 4:30 PM, to be exact. As I walked as a new widow up and down the winding slopes of Raheja Vihar, I felt unsafe and unprotected, as if a vital safety shield had been unceremoniously ripped away from my life. Walking briskly, I held myself firmly with both hands in a sort of self-hug, wondering what I would do with the rest of my life. I felt completely lost and alone. The pain in my chest felt like a boulder, and that boulder seemed to multiply every day.

I walked all around our apartment complex searching for my late husband. I went up to the terrace, stared at the sun, and remembered his last words to me: "There's no point living in Bombay if we don't live in a sea-facing apartment, Poopie. Let's move out from here in the next two years."

Five years have passed since he left, and honestly, whenever life throws googlies at me, I still feel like that 34-year-old new widow with a two-year-old, wondering what to do next. The dead definitely do not watch over you; I can say this with utter conviction because, other than the Amityville-like horror episodes I experienced in the first month of his passing, there has been complete silence. Death is final. There is no turning back or "moving on" from that.

What death did do for me was make me more emotionally intuitive and sensitive. Today, it is very easy for me to sniff out bullshit from people on both the personal and professional fronts. I can gauge a person's intentions through mere chatter or a single gaze. Honestly, I have reached a stage in my life where I only seek intensity—intensity in life and in work. If you are not 100% genuine with me, I will simply walk away because I really do not have the time. If a 35-year-old can drop dead on a Monday afternoon, so can I. So, do not waste my time or yours.

As for my late husband and my grief, they have changed me irrevocably. Some chord inside me has snapped violently, and there is no way I can go back to being that carefree, pre-grief girl. Two tattoos, multiple hair colour changes, and a moderate amount of sweet liquors and cocktails later, I can confirm: some days, the boulder inside my chest is very loud. All you can do is let it be loud until it decides to quieten down. In the meantime, accept everything and expect nothing from people, or from life.