Bombay Nights, Midnight Parties, and the Friend I Didn't Know I Needed

There was an outpouring of love this morning from all quarters after I posted and blogged about my late husband. I received so many "How are you?" messages that I felt absolutely touched. The world is indeed full of kind and wonderful people.

One among them who reached out was Tasneem, my colleague from Adfactors Bombay back in 2016. She was the sweetest thing—small, petite, and with the most generous heart. In fact, I once had an entire litre of Sheer Khurma, all thanks to her. She was also my neighbour in Kandivali, and we shared a cab on most days.

For whatever reason—consider it the immaturity of a brash 30-something, or perhaps I was just a much meaner person then—I just couldn’t get along very well with Tasneem. Clearly, I was the toxic one in that friendship. Yet, Tasneem kept in touch with me over the years. Every time she reaches out, I feel like that young 30-something all over again, living in Bombay and attending house parties until 3 AM. Living in Bombay and partying with my Adfactors colleagues until the wee hours of the morning was clearly the highlight of my youth and the best time of my life.

Each one of us in that gang was unique in our own way. We all had smart-talking mouths, were street-savvy, and were figuring out the Bombay media landscape for our roster of clients.

I apologised to Tasneem this morning when she messaged me, saying, "I’m so proud of you, Gayatri." If that right there is not true love, I really don’t know what is. I am blessed to have such wonderful friends and colleagues in my life, with Tasneem, of course, being one of them. Thank you, Tasneem, for always reaching out and always saying something wonderfully nice to me. I love you.

Three Feet in Time: An 18th Poopieversary Note

It was 3:45 AM when I distinctly had a vision of my late husband. He was dressed all in black with a pensive look on his face, holding his guitar and creating a new composition while standing in the music room of our sprawling 3BHK house in Powai. It was almost like he was telling me telepathically, “Slow down, Poopie. Your right knee is creaky—look after that. Don’t go crazy juggling Riaan’s after-school activities and work. Take a chill pill.”

Had he been alive, I’m pretty sure he would have just said, “I don’t know. Just figure it out, Poopie.” But perhaps dead Poopie is a saint now? Or is it just in my head?

My knee does creak by the way. It started last Sunday right in the middle of watching He-Man and the Masters of the Universe. As I was texting someone last evening, I’m an "old lady pants" now—who doesn’t actually wear pants because it’s too hot in Chennai.

Coming back to my late husband: today is 12th June 2026. We met exactly 18 years ago in the summer of 2008. No wonder I’m dreaming of him. The dead never leave us, do they? They’re tricky that way. We’re always one foot in the future, one in the present, and one in the past. We are three people all at the same time. By "we," I mean people who are experiencing loss and have more or less navigated the grief-monster with our fair share of cuts and bruises—both visible and invisible to the world.

I guess I’ve moved some figurative mountains since my husband passed, and I’ve lost track of how many because time is a blur to me. There are the daily deliverables of work and school. There is the constant life crisis of whether my child will be a homeless bum by 25 or if he’ll figure his shit out and get it together in school (he’s only in second standard by the way, so someone can whack me now; I’ll accept it). Then, there is the larger life crisis of what I’ll do once he goes to college. Should I get a superbike and ride all over the world, or should I invest in a very fancy old age home with a swimming pool and a badminton court so that I can continue being a small potato at home?

The questions are infinite, and the answers will only come slowly and steadily with the passage of time.

For now, yes, Poopie, I still remember you. You don’t have to look pensive and pass on telepathic messages to me. On that note, your back was already creaky five years ago, so my creaky knee is quite justified at almost 40, thank you very much. Shove some melody inside your son’s brains as well. The musical genius in him has still not awakened, and I’m tone-deaf, as you well know.

Happy 18th Poopieversary, my dearest Poopie. Riaan and I love and miss you. Well, I definitely do. For Riaan, you are sadly just a figment of his imagination, but he’s getting to know you with time.

Of Muses, Music, and Unfulfilled Desires

Music and food are my core memories. There are certain songs that instantly remind my son and me of his late father. John Legend's "All of Me" is one of them. He would play this song on repeat, chuckle, and say, "Did you know he was a management consultant too, just like me? He quit very early, though, to become a musician. I want to follow in his footsteps, Poopie."

In hindsight, I wish he had. He might still be alive today. If he had, I could have worn tiny bikinis and danced around in front of him while he made romantic, best-selling music videos. I digress, though; those are just my fantasies.

My late husband's original compositions were far from romantic, and they definitely gave me palpitations on stressful days. In fact, he composed a track for me titled "Poopie Monster." I have no idea where he saved it on his devices, so it is lost forever. I was someone's musical muse. What a pity it is that I don't even remember the melody anymore.

My late husband's life is a classic example of unfulfilled desires. We take for granted the time we have on Earth, pushing our deepest wishes to another day. But that day may never come. That is why it is so important to grab that superbike, be loud and screechy, and just be your authentic self—today and every day.

I definitely don't want to die young, nor do I want to die without living out all my deep, dark desires. I want to start by swimming in a pool filled with gooey chocolate sauce, drinking it now and then between laps. Can Willy Wonka hear me now?

So, go be a musician, drown yourself in a pool of chocolate, or do whatever it is that you truly want to do. Life is unpredictable. Absolutely nothing is in our control except for right now. Live in the moment—vicariously, fully, and wholeheartedly.

Conquering the Mid-Week Chaos

There are no more blues by mid-week because you've re-learnt to navigate the chaos from Monday. It's amazing how adaptable the human mind and body are. From eating 1.5 cheesecakes and way too many carbs over the weekend to suddenly shifting gears on Monday, it's an absolute jolt to the system. But it is a jolt we're all used to by now—until next Monday comes along.

The early morning and late-night tantrums paired with office work, sports, and school homework can drag anyone down. But not on a Wednesday. Today, we will not allow tiny humans at home and humans at work to fluster you. Today, you're a master of the routine. You've got this. Every file at work, every morsel of food to be prepared for school, post-school, and bedtime—it is all under control.

The finish line is almost close. The weekend plan is all set. The oil in your hair has all settled in for a beauty bath. The deep dark circles that make you look like the Corpse Bride still remain on your face despite the watermelon eye patches. But hey, you can't win them all.

To more Wonder Wednesdays! May we continue to conquer what's left of the week. As always, for any meltdowns, reach out for Moong dal halwa or sugar-free ice cream. They are extremely unhealthy yet wholesome options for the mind and body.

The Power of Emotional Support Mushrooms

My 7-year-old hugs a smiley-faced mushroom to sleep every night. His eyes and mouth close the moment the mushroom is tucked next to his chest. That stuffed toy has made bedtime so much easier and faster.

Emotional support mushrooms—we all need them, especially as adults. I vent all day and night until kingdom come to a few select human beings every day, and it makes my brain and heart feel so light. 

There is no shame in trying to heal with the help of your emotional support humans. We are social animals, and occasionally, our batteries need recharging. I recharge mine on a daily basis; until all the toxins are out of my engine, I keep whining. The moment that process is complete, I feel ready to get going again.

Emotional support mushrooms—may we all have at least three to five of them in our lives.

Eternia on the Big Screen: A Nostalgic Review of He-Man and the Masters of the Universe

My earliest memories of He-Man and Skeletor trace back to my grandfather’s bedroom during the summers of 1992 onwards. Back then, my Barbie dolls were vigorously attacked and "murdered" by GI Joe soldiers in various camps—on a boat inside a bucket full of water, or in a bunker with bombs and guns. He-Man, Skeletor, and Ram Man would often join the GI crew to mutilate enemy dolls.

I wasn't upset, as I loved mutilating my dolls, too. Annabelle would have run away from me at age five. Beheading my dolls and drawing on heavy makeup until they looked like Heath Ledger's Joker was my one and only job. Watching that chaotic battleground alongside two 12-year-old boys making battle noises was fascinating. I was always conflicted between killing my Barbies alongside the action figures or standing inside the bucket of water with the GI Joe figure on the boat. What tempting options!

Surprisingly, I simply sat and gaped at my brothers as they caused mass destruction, realizing what I'd been missing out on all my life. The destruction I was causing was apparently too tame. There was a whole other world of chaos that I was yet to discover and master.

The first time I saw biceps and biscuits for abs was on He-Man's plastic body. His haircut looked just like my mother's. He looked very interesting and immediately caught my attention. Skeletor looked equally fascinating with his skull for a face. What sorcery was this? Which magical land had I been transformed into?

All my childhood questions were answered in the new He-Man and the Masters of the Universe film. In the first ten seconds of looking at He-Man (Nicholas Galitzine) and his handsome face covered by a blonde bob haircut, I knew exactly why I was fascinated with long-haired men throughout my teenage years. What a gorgeous soundtrack the movie had, and Eternia along with Castle Grayskull looked so familiar to me, like I had grown up watching them all my life.

I can only imagine how emotional the boys who played with He-Man action figures would have been throughout the movie. Even I shed a tear when young Prince Adam saw his parents being dragged away by Skeletor, and I laughed as he explained his childhood to his Hinge date, who ghosted him the minute he finished talking about his home.

I could relate to He-Man in a way that only a girl with two young brothers could. The movie is an absolute must-watch for He-Man lovers and for those who cheered on their He-Man lovers. You'll feel right at home, and you'll laugh and cry along with He-Man and Skeletor. What a funny villain indeed! Watching Skeletor and all his hilarious antics was definitely the icing on the cake of this movie.

I rate He-Man and the Masters of the Universe 5 stars!

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.