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.

The Day the Earth Spun Too Fast: A Mother’s Race Against Time

When a child vomits, the Earth turns once on its axis at a very high speed. My world turned this morning at exactly 7:45 AM—five minutes after he had eaten a good breakfast, twenty minutes before my trainer was scheduled to arrive, and with only an hour left before I had to log into work.

There was vomit everywhere. I practically broke down trying to clean it all up while racing against the clock. It was the race against time that truly got to me, even more than the freshly eaten breakfast I had handmade for him just five minutes before feeding him. More than a tsunami of vomit, there was a tsunami of panic in my head. Today was going to be miserably late and, in general, just miserable.

My attention was completely fragmented: half my mind was on my sick, puking child, half was at work, and the other half was consumed by unexpected school errands that had popped up randomly at 9:00 PM last night. I am tired just writing this.

Coming back to my recurring point—that women, especially women, simply cannot have it all—it couldn't be more apt than on a day like today. I need to be split into three separate parts today: one at work, one to worry about my sick child, and one to run school errands. How I will manage to finish it all remains to be seen. My impossible day starts now, and I am already late for work.

Sigh, and sigh.

The Sizzling Brownie: Owning the "Single Mom" Title

The little devil and I had to pay a visit to his paediatrician yesterday because he has been coughing his bum off and his skin was so burning hot, you could fry cheese nachos or French fries off it. So, Sir sat at home and created havoc everywhere—starting with my home, my parents, and the hospital.

There was a pimply teenage boy and a couple of little babies who were either highly entertained by him or wanted to wear earplugs. Each time a baby gooed or gaaed, he'd imitate their noise and say, "Awwww, what a cute little bean," "Poor little baby," and "Maaaamaaa, why is that baby crying?" When I would reply with a shrug or say, "No idea, Riaan," he would loudly announce to all and sundry in the hospital, "But maaamaaa, you're a single mom, you should know why babies cry! Now tell me why they are crying!"

Honestly, in that moment, I wished the earth would swallow me, similar to Sita being swallowed by the Earth when Ram wife-shamed her. From where had he picked up this term, "single mom"? Was it my book? Was it his YouTube Shorts? Was it chatter amongst his little friends? My soul pretty much stepped out of my body, and the rest of me wanted to run away as well, the more he called me a "single mum" louder than a loudspeaker.

As I write about this incident this morning, though, I realise: why should I be ashamed of being single and a mom? I've been both for a solid 5 years. Let me own it and simmer in that title like a hot piece of sizzling brownie inside decadent chocolate sauce. No vanilla ice cream required for me, please. This sizzling brownie has been sizzling for a while now. Brownie, out! Single moms, in!

The Heart of the Mothership

The mothership turns 71 today,

And I'm glad she laid out the way,

I turned out nothing like her, much to her dismay,

She's politically correct, come what may,

Not aggressively noisy,

Or too voraciously voicy,

Self-sacrificing and bearing the brunt of everyone's pain,

She truly has nothing to gain,

In feeding us and listening to us rant,

But that's a mother's love for you, something we take for granted and pretend we don't want,

I call her Mother India,

Because she goes out of her way for anyone she loves, like a swimmer in Olympia,

Thankful to be born of you,

Today I'm two,

And both our brains you've managed to decipher, occasionally feeling blue,

I'm sure you're wondering,

How you managed to create children and grandchildren whose minds are always wandering,

Perhaps the apple doesn't fall too far from the tree,

To have you as our mum and grandmum, our hearts are always filled with glee,

The mothership turns 71 today,

And I'm glad she laid out the way.

The Human Mixed Fried Rice: High Voltage, No Filter

My brain is constantly alternating between two modes: either I am in full Chaiya Chaiya mode, pretending to be a sexy Malaika Arora dancing enthusiastically on top of a moving train, or I am John Rzeznik, looking sexy as hell and belting out, "And I’d give up forever to touch you, / 'Cause I know that you feel me somehow. / You’re the closest to Heaven that I’ll ever be, / And I don’t wanna go home right now." This is not a brag; it truly is a childhood issue. I bring the drama to dramatic, the hurry to a hurricane, and the "Tsu" to a tsunami—you get the drift.

After 39 and a half years of self-introspection, I have realized that I am simply "too much." Thank God I still have friends who love me; my family just has to tolerate me, bless their souls. My mood changes quicker than a pendulum. I can go from happy to sad in under ten seconds flat, and back from sad to happy in under five. You could say my emotions are flaky. I just can’t make up my mind whether I want to be heartbroken or deliriously happy, count my blessings, or constantly crib that my back and knees hurt.

I am mixed fried rice with way too much mixed inside. When the waiter asks, "Chicken or prawns, sir?" and you reply, "Mix"—I am that mix. I am mixed fried rice, mixed noodles, and an American chopsuey with everything tossed in. What a strange personality indeed.

To quote every superhero movie’s cliché dialogue: "My abilities are a gift and a curse." In my case, my superpower is that I can read a room and a person like Superman using his X-ray vision, peering right down to your underwear. Whether you hate me, love me, dislike me, despise me, or try to brush me off, I catch it faster than The Flash. I am loud, chatty, giggly, and entirely in your face. Luckily, my friends understand. It is far too late in the day for me to change this high-voltage personality. So, wear your sunglasses or pop in some earplugs, because this chatterbox ain’t keeping quiet anytime soon.

Hyper bunny on sugar-free ice cream, out!

Dreaming of Doshas: A 3 AM Sleep Experiment

So last night, I tried something different to break my shitty sleep cycle. I kept my phone miles away from me, hoping for an undisturbed eight hours of sleep. But lo and behold, I woke up right along with the ghosts past midnight—at 3 AM sharp, just like I always do.

This kind of waking up is tricky: either you go back to sleep quickly, or you stay awake like a night owl staring into nothingness. Luckily, last night I did drift back to sleep. I ended up dreaming about masala doshas with my child, which was strange since we hadn't eaten or ordered them recently.

In the dream, we walked into a humble-looking South Indian breakfast restaurant with steel tables and simple sofas. We waited for someone to take our order. Finally, we decided to walk around to find a waiter to place our masala dosha order. As I kept thinking about that dosa, I wondered who was actually going to eat it; Riaan loves puris, and I am off carbs. Yet, for some reason, the masala dosha was stuck in my head.

When we turned around to look back at our table, we discovered to our shock that it was occupied by five or six potbellied uncles. Luckily for us, we suddenly spotted my mum at another table. As I looked at her face in the distance and wondered why on earth I wanted to eat a masala dosha, I woke up again.

This time it was 5:30 AM. Phone or no phone, my sleep is definitely still disturbed. But looking on the bright side, without my mobile phone, I suppose the time taken to drift back to sleep was quicker. And masala dosha dreams, however perplexing, are never a bad thing to have.

Not-so-tired owl, out!

The Uninvited Intruder

Migraine attacks,

Sneak in like an uninvited rat,

Loud, screechy, hammering,

The pain has me clamouring.

I bury my head in pain,

Lying in the farthest corners of my bed, forlorn. 

With migraine attacks,

There are no hacks,

Except to wait for it to pass,

Like an intruder who wants to trespass.

A migraine is a full mind and body experience;

It has you feeling delirious,

A complete lack of control over your senses,

And even your best defences,

Can't keep it out,

All you can do is wait it out,

Migraine attacks,

Sneak in like an uninvited rat.

My Backup Squad: Celebrating Three Special Birthdays

The upcoming week is filled with the birthdays of three of my favorite people—my mother, Riaan's best friend Agu, and my dear friend and colleague of more than a decade, Shina.

All three of them are Cancerians, meaning they are highly empathetic and deeply sensitive. It is a good mix because they keep my son and me in check. I dump my emotional load on both of these ladies like nobody's business, and they solve it for me in under ten seconds—either with a kind word or a pair of their lovely slippers. The message gets delivered effectively, and I quickly move on with my life until the next problem pops up.Moving on to Agu: he is Riaan's everyday protector and guardian angel. He reports all of Riaan's daily misdemeanors to his mom, Devyani, who promptly reports them all to me.

Consequently, my post-school days are filled with either reprimanding Riaan, appreciating him, or feeling sorry for him, depending on the situation he has gotten himself into.They all have sparkling personalities. To quote Shina, when I mentioned, "What a wonderful, crabby person you are—I meant the star sign, not your personality," she quickly corrected me, saying, "We are all crabby, but still nice, even personality-wise." I quickly nodded along and wisely steered the conversation in another direction.

What would Riaan and I do without this strong trio in our lives? Read more about them and how they have significantly influenced my life in my brand-new book, "The Story of One Single Mom and Her Backup Squad," where they make prominent appearances in the prologue, poetry, and essay sections.

The links to purchase my book for Indian and international readers are available below:

For Readers in India:

Amazon India: https://amzn.in/d/075flTXm

Notion Press: https://notionpress.com/in/read/the-story-of-one-single-mom-and-her-backup-squad

Flipkart: https://www.flipkart.com/story-one-single-mom-her-backupsquad/p/itm748b32e22b9fb

For International Readers:

Amazon US: https://a.co/d/0bVbTKVs

Amazon UK: https://amzn.eu/d/0c38jlyf

The Dentist's Chair Nightmare

I have more cement than teeth in my mouth now,

Before I could even ask how,

The job was already done,

And it was far from fun,

One excruciating hour of drilling, polishing, and cleaning,

I found myself puffing, panting, and leaning,

I collapsed into a chair,

And gasped for huge breaths of air, 

I crawled back home,

My mumma's home,

Ate two tubs of ice cream,

And decided to forget it all like a bad dream,

Protect your teeth with all your might,

Lest you undergo my plight, 

Ice cream and sleep,

That's all I want for tonight, while I try not to weep.

The Legend of Swaroop Chettan: My Brother, My Superman

For the umpteenth time, I am writing about my main source of inspiration: my family. This piece is about my big brother, Swaroop Mohanlal—the man who made me fall in love with superhero movies, thanks to his extensive collection of graphic novels when we were kids. We have an eight-year age gap, and he has fully taken advantage of that situation!

Family weddings have always been so much fun with Swaroop chettan and the rest of our large family. Growing up, Swaroop chettan and Arjun chettan were the main conspirators in ruining the "first nights" of many newlywed couples in our family. Once, as a seven-year-old, I was told to hide under my uncle and aunt's bed on their wedding night. Of course, they caught me and threw me out in an instant, thanks to all the giggling coming from under their feet! 

Another time, these boys hid alarm clocks set to go off at various hours of the night just to wake a newly married couple from their deep slumber. We even stood outside bedrooms with firecrackers and matchsticks, eavesdropping on conversations and reporting back to each other.

So naturally, when I got married and couldn't spend my first night in my own house, I was super disappointed. For the first time, I was away from my naughty brothers and my family. I cried buckets of tears on my wedding day—and for a whole week leading up to it.

Both of my brothers are absolute legends. They are smart, funny, and incredibly sharp with their work. Because of them, it is only natural that I grew up to be an amazing human (cue the applause, please—thank you, thank you!).

Unfortunately, we couldn't all meet up as a giant family this year for various reasons. Therefore, I sent him a little reminder of how important he is in my life: a custom Superman and Superwoman sibling memento. I wanted him to carry those wonderful childhood memories back to the U.S. with his adorable children.

Swaroop chetta, you are one of the Supermen in my life. Thank you for your words of encouragement, and even for your harsh criticisms of my writing, which have improved my craft tremendously over the years. I don't think a single article or blog post is enough to cover the ocean of love and affection I feel for you, your beautiful wife, and your gorgeous children. 

You are an extension of me, and I am an extension of you. We are bonded forever by the late Captain P. Thyagarajan (the greatest sailor of all time) and the late Mrs. Indira Thyagarajan (the best ammumma any child could ever have grown up with).