An Epic Love Story or a Horror Film: The Power of Devotion

The relationship between a man and a woman is so profound that the two can either create magic or blow everything up in smoke. They have the choice to build a beautiful family together, or burn everything—including themselves—in their wake. 

Reflecting on my own life, the most soul-satisfying relationship I ever had was with my late husband back when he was still my boyfriend. I have never met anyone like him since, (including him) after we got married. But having another human being who just gets you, understands you, and always stands in your corner—now, that is a lifetime dopamine hit you never want to come down from. When you have one devoted, loving partner by your side, you suddenly feel like you can go out into the world and achieve absolutely anything. I haven't had that for the past five years, and I treasure the memory of it now more than ever. If you have a loving partner who chooses you every single day, despite every obstacle life throws your way, hang on to that person. What you have right there is everything. 

I think I was always born to be a wife and a mother. I cannot imagine how I would have functioned without those responsibilities in my life. Of course, I had to forgo the wifely duties five years ago, but you get my drift. I am the kind of girl you take home to your parents and introduce to your entire friend circle—and before you know it, I will be at the center of it all, slowly and steadily winning all their loyalty. 

Perhaps I am this dependable because I come from a family of human Banyan trees: suffocatingly loving and deeply empowering. They have given me the courage to conquer hearts across the board. I don't fear love; what I fear is flakiness. I can sniff it a mile away, and the moment I do, I will walk away and never say hello again. It is that simple. 

A relationship between a man and a woman can go one of two ways. It can either be an epic love story written into books, shot as movies, and sung in melodies, or it can be a horror story too terrifying to feature even in R.L. Stine's "Goosebumps".

The Highways Department: Raising My One and Only

As I looked at my little boy's defiant face yesterday evening after letting him have it for yet another misdemeanor, I saw a little man's face. My almost 8-year-old boy is growing up to be stubborn and pig-headed. It is his way or the highway, so by this logic, our house is probably the highways department now. 

I remember one of the very first P.T.A. meetings I had with his L.K.G. class teacher. She asked me, "Oh, almost eight years of marriage and only one child?" I wish I could catch hold of her now and say, "My one and only is wearing me down. So yes, I truly am done in the baby-making department for this life. Perhaps in the next life, when I have a husband who doesn't abruptly die on me, I can be Queen Gandhari, reproducing 100 miniatures of me and calling them Kauravas. I don't see a King Dhritarashtra in sight right now." 

His baby ego takes a hit each time I give him a shelling, and he knows very well why he is at the receiving end. But he must rebel anyway, because that is exactly what I did with my parents as a teenager. It looks like his teenage genes kicked in a whole decade early. God bless my soul at this point and send reinforcements. Throwing hot chocolate at my front door would be a good idea to begin with, and if I need anything else, I will let you know. 

At present, he is grunting and groaning next to me in bed, ordering me to stop writing: "Mumma, you can do all this in the morning, not at night." Well, technically 5:20 AM is still night for a little person, so his current request is valid. 

Where do the years go, really? While I am glad he is no longer the electricity socket explorer and plant destroyer, this new human who has replaced the older version is a challenge. Each year is a challenge. I can almost hear a narrator in the background—similar to the Jumanji narrator's voice—saying, "Congratulations! You have officially crossed the toddler years. Welcome to Level 3: the school-going years. More homework, more tantrums, and more strange food requests. What joy!" 

Ready to collapse now. Goodnight and good morning, everybody.

Lessons from a Unicorn: Love, Light, and Respect

I never got a chance to say goodbye to my partner and husband of close to 13 years. One minute he was alive, and the next he wasn't. My only regret in life, if any, is that I wasn't with him during his final moments. He apparently held his head in pain and told his colleagues, "I want to go home," just before he collapsed and passed away. It is something that will haunt me forever. He wanted to come home to our son and me, but he never could. 

Because of this, I understand the bittersweet importance of goodbyes. Had I known he was about to pass away, I would have probably just hugged him and said, "Thank you for this life. I'm so glad I got to do it all with you." Instead, I took his warm, lifeless body back to our Powai home on a late Monday evening. 

I don't burn bridges—whether it's with a person or an organization. I respect everyone, even if things don't always go as planned. Respect is important because it shows you cared about that human being, or about the company that decided to hire you. I only think of all the people and organizations that have come and gone in my life (especially in the past five years) with love and light. 

Everyone suffers, and everyone has a tragic story of their own. The least we can do is be kind. Life has more shades of grey than black and white, and as long as we accept and acknowledge this, all will be fine. Remember—love, light, and respect—these are the three things that you must spread in abundance for the people of the past, present, and future. Like I've written a million times already, I love love. All these emotions are filled with love. So here I go, a delusional little Unicorn with plenty of love to give to all those asking for it.

Movie Magic, Breadcrumbs, and True Believers

I grew up watching impossible love stories—Beauty and the Beast, 50 First Dates, Soldier, Notting Hill, and Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge. In most of these movies, the men always delivered. The women were simply allowed to be themselves: chatty, outspoken, cool, successful, pretty, and a never-ending list of other positive adjectives. 

Now, I am not quite sure who I have grown up into. Am I Preeti Singh from Soldier, Belle from Beauty and the Beast, or Anna Scott from Notting Hill? Perhaps I am Anna Scott. I was, in fact, just a girl standing in front of a boy, asking him to love her. Luckily for me, the very first boy I met in my life delivered. 

Fast forward to the present, exactly two decades later with very different life circumstances, and love stories apparently no longer exist. Instead, there is just a bunch of lonely 40-year-olds who think they will live forever. They are living out some personal social experiment, hoping the breadcrumbs they throw out will sustain an impossible fantasy. 

Just no! Step up or step away, sirs or ma'ams. Give people credit for the basic intelligence they bring to the table. 

In the meantime, I am still a believer in impossible love stories because I have already lived one out. I love love. I am a gigantic mushball of chocolate-covered hearts—always was and always will be.

The Myth of Going with the Flow at Forty

I haven't had a dramatic breakup in life... yet! For me, human beings are valuable creatures. I don't treat them like underwear, changing them every five to six hours. Nope, that is not my style, never was, and never will be. 

However, over the last three years, I've stumbled across some "rowdy pasanga," for lack of a better word, and I'm so happy I'm single. What a time to try and find someone to marry—it's a bloodbath of emotional unavailability out there. I quickly open the front door and escort the aforementioned "rowdy pasanga" out of my life, hoping they do not wander into anyone else's. 

Do you want to die alone or do you not? It's a simple question with an even simpler answer. Once you're clear about that, then—and only then—should you speak to other humans. In the meantime, I highly recommend you keep your personal social experiments to yourself. 

Frankly, if you are telling another human at 40 that you want to "go with the flow," what flow are you talking about? The flow into an old age home where you'll die alone, childless, and partnerless? We're 40, not 20. We have another 20 years to live, maybe 30. 

Now, I won't die alone even with a dead husband, because I've specifically instructed my son to liquefy brownies and pour them into my IV tubes, alongside his wife and kids. He agreed on the single condition that I go on bumper car rides with him every Sunday for the rest of his life. I quickly agreed because it was a steal of a deal. 

Coming back to the topic at hand: emotional unavailability. You're not Batman. You're just a man or a woman (depending on who is reading this). There are only so many places on the globe you can travel to. Your parents will eventually leave before you, and your siblings will be too busy leading their own lives, even if they want to participate actively in yours. So, good luck with all that emotional unavailability. May your soul rest in peace. My husband, who passed away five years ago, is definitely more alive than you are at this point.

The Chronicle of a Lifelong Ice Cream Addict

If I had to describe myself in one sentence, it would be this: terrorizing the lives of ice cream servers since 1989. To be exact, my love affair started when I turned two and discovered both the vocabulary of screaming and the sheer joy of frozen desserts. Before that, around 1987, I was—in my son’s words—"just a little bean," or in my own words, a sleeping blob. 

Back then, I ate like a wild animal. My mother, overwhelmed by the chaotic mess, resorted to stuffing cone ice creams inside drinking glasses. Eating was a total annihilation of dairy; picture a lion lunging for a hippo or a zebra in the jungle, only for the prey to explode all over the predator's face. That was me at two years old—except covered in ice cream instead of mud. 

Decades later, ice cream still excites me and terrorizes every Ibaco server in Chennai. My son and I routinely hound the poor staff behind the counter, demanding custom scoops paired with exactly 99 toppings. Not 100, mind you, because we are civilized humans who leave a little something for the other customers. From Pistachio and Sea Salt Caramel Pecan to Chocolate Orange, Belgian Chocolate, and Almond Crunch, the flavor combinations are infinite. 

My mouth is watering just thinking about it. I cannot wait to hit Ibaco this weekend for the millionth time to get lost in a world of sugary goodness. Once an ice cream lover, always an ice cream lover. This beautiful love story started when I was two, and I never want it to end. Is there anything better in this world than ice cream? Absolutely not! Ice cream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream!

Turning 40, Guarding Peace, and the Art of the Exit Button

I’m turning 40 next January, and my mother is convinced I’m not middle-aged yet. She thinks she is middle-aged at 71. How cute is this lady? She is way cuter than my wobbly, creaky knees and broken back, for sure—especially after a 30-minute bumpy car ride inside Timezone with my son. 

Each time I tell her a new maniacal plan of mine—which includes more hair colours, tattoos, or a big, fat, loud-looking automobile with my name written all over the backdoor (remember Kunal Kemmu’s Red Thar in "Single Papa")—she tells me, "No, no, no." It’s so cute that she still assumes I’ll listen to her, or anyone else for that matter. 

But as a wise man once told me, "Respect your parents, even if you don't agree with them. Don't have silly squabbles with them, and ensure you have their blessings in life always. Because when you do, people like me will also get blessed by them indirectly." It is very strange logic, but I agree. He also went on to tell me, "This whole 'rebel without a cause' thing was cute at 16. You're not 16. I hope you remember that." 

I unfortunately do. And if I forget, my aching shoulder blades and every other creaky bone in my body remind me. 

For me, the mid-life crisis—or rather, existential crisis—has been very real from the moment my son was born and when my husband passed away. To live a whole life, not just be a mother and a corporate slave: what do I really love doing? What do I want from life? Exploring the "I" has taken prominence, especially in the last five years. 

In that process, my ability to sniff out bullshit from people and situations has become super high. I simply exit when I notice toxic patterns, and I don't ask for explanations. This is relevant across organizations and the people I’ve come across. My life is already a drama, moving from one dramatic scene to the next, with curtains closing and opening from 6:00 AM to 9:00 PM. Now, in the middle of all that chaos, you can either bring me peace and calm, or if you choose to bring further drama, I’ll simply press the exit button. No questions asked, no explanations needed. 

I’ve always chosen to believe actions over words. The only people I live for right now are family and perhaps some very close friends. Everyone and everything else is just a passing fancy, I suppose, if you don’t come through. 

Peace!

Sunday Night Blues

The weekend flew by too fast,

Because we were having too much of a blast,

A blur of swimming, sleeping, and eating,

That went on repeating,

For so blissfully long,

As much as the drool that covered my entire face, each time I woke up from power naps that went on for far too long, 

Why do the weekends fly by so fast?

Why can't good things actually last?

I'm truly feeling the blues this Sunday,

And I just don't want to wake up to yet another Monday,

Mentally scheduling activities for the next weekend already,

For I'm just not ready,

To trudge into yet another Monday,

I'm so sad to reach the end of a Sunday,

The weekend flew by too fast,

Because we were having too much of a blast.

The Evolution of Chennai: From the Principal’s Office to the Open Mic

I have developed a sudden, deep respect and love for the conservative city I grew up in. Apparently, an entire two decades later, I can finally write and openly tell the questionable jokes that used to land me straight in the principal's office with my parents on standby. Today, I crack those same jokes openly and get applauded. What a beautiful time to be alive in Chennai! 

From arts and business networking to fitness, the city is burgeoning with incredible in-person events, fresh ideas, and super-smart people bringing them to life. 

I am so pumped up this morning because last night I attended an event called "Open Mic... Permission to be Myself." That is exactly what I did. Give me a platform and an audience, and I am excited. Give me an audience and a platform where I am told to be completely myself, and my excitement literally has excitement! I simply could not wait to hit the stage. 

The audience was wonderful, Backyard was a cozy venue, and our host, Sindhu Shankar, was incredibly warm and welcoming. The icing on the cake was watching my little boy's eyes light up every time I cracked a joke. I also took comfort in knowing that two women I deeply admire and respect—Devyani (Agu's mom and my confidante of close to 4 years) and Preethi (my super-smart lawyer, solo traveller, and writer friend)—were in the audience laughing along. 

My heart is full. I had a wonderful evening and am looking forward to participating in many more exciting, invigorating events like this!

A Tribute to the Leaders Who Shaped Me

I just rewatched Devil Wears Prada 2 on Hotstar, and it made me realise where women truly create and live out their best love stories: in boardrooms, in offices, during client pitches, and in the midst of crazy brand launches. These are times when days blur into nights and we work closely alongside inspirational women leaders who bring out the absolute best in us. 

Of course, all of that comes with a cost, and both sides understand this. Work takes precedence over matters at home, and we see very little of our children, especially during such high-pressure periods. Because we understand the heavy cost of this time spent away from our little ones, it is only natural that we simply put our heads down and give it our absolute best. 

The work that emerges from these intense times has been phenomenal. The output and that core team are spoken about for years on end, long after people have left the organisation. I am blessed to have worked with such inspirational women leaders—exactly two of them during the course of my communications career. They have shaped me as a person and subconsciously showed me how to conduct myself in the workplace. These are some of the best love stories of my life: my women bosses and me. 

I am sure they are still killing it out there in the corporate world, wherever they are with their current teams and assignments. I hope the Account Executive you hired in 2014 and the Deputy Manager of Corporate Brand and Communications you so warmly welcomed in 2022 are still making you proud, my dearest Mary and Shina. You both made the P.R. and Corporate Communications world more bearable for me just by being yourselves. 

From your forever cheerleader for life,

A very grateful, hopefully more politically correct communications professional.

Still 21 in the Head: A Journey from the Corporate Cage to Rocking Concerts

"But you're not 21 years old, Gayatri," replied my scandalised friend of 18 years when I emotionally shared my travel and concert-catching plans. Watching me chuckle, he turned to my unbothered son, who was playing with the giant toy he had gifted him. "Riaan, please control your mother." 

My weekends are lived like I'll die tomorrow, but my weekdays feel like a golden cage I can't escape from for at least the next 20 years. That last bit is probably relatable to anyone slowly and steadily slogging it out in the corporate world, hoping to settle down their children and retire as soon as possible. 

Honestly, watching a 35-year-old—who was reaching the peak of his career, leading a happy, fulfilled married life (courtesy of me, of course; I was a bloody good wife), and amassing all the material wealth in the world—suddenly drop dead on one fine sunny afternoon changed me irrevocably. 

Now, my life is all about accumulating tattoos, expanding my horizons with hair colour, and submerging myself in experiences I would have never dreamt of. This includes travelling overseas with my son and standing in the middle of a 2,000-person concert crowd. The last time I did that was with my late husband—both as an audience member and as his disinterested wife while he played some very disturbing riffs with his multiple bands on stage. 

So, that's me, ladies and gentlemen. I'm not 40 yet (still clinging to the last few months of my 30s), but I'm still 21 in the head. Just go live. In my case, with and without a husband. Peace!

Undefeated by Death

I am so glad that the dead are not buried in beautiful graves according to our customs. If they were, unlike Peter Parker who only visited Aunt May between work shifts, I might have permanently laid flat on my husband’s grave for days on end, until someone physically dragged me away. 

Actually, our customs are worse when you think about it. We watch them go up in flames, but not before untying a white thread from their toes while the priest tells you, "Now your earthly bonds with this man are over." This happens right after rubbing ghee all over him and feeling his rigor mortis-stiffened hands under yours. I pray no woman, man, or child ever has to experience what I did on December 7th, 2021, inside a very impersonal Bombay crematorium. 

A couple of days later, we received his ashes. Once again, I kept digging my hands into the pot to submerge them inside a very questionable-looking immersion tank, until my brother had to physically drag me away from both the pot and the tank. 

These scars are a permanent part of my mind and body. So when I say do not take time and people for granted, this is why. We do not have forever. We die alone, wanting to go back home but never reaching it, only to turn to ashes dumped into lakes or rivers. 

For a long time, hospital stretchers and hospital corners triggered me because that is where I first saw him—once again, lying in an impersonal corner, just waiting for me to take him home. On some days, I still feel like a waiting wife, expecting her husband to return home from some obscure part of the globe. On other days, I continue to drown myself in work and pretend all is well with the world. 

Grief doesn't leave you. It simply bubbles to the surface when you find yourself in situations where people disappoint you. Then you realize you have been through much worse and survived. This too shall pass. It certainly shall. 

Undefeated by death, mommy, and hating being called a widow—widow, out!

The Dettol of Disappointment: Finding Closure in Flakiness

Closure. It is something we always seek from people when things don’t go as expected. But here is the deal: life doesn’t give you closure, and death doesn’t either. So, how can you expect it from people? 

Simply consider their flakiness to be your closure. You cannot force people to treat you right or act a certain way. All you can do is be your wonderful self, and when your gestures are not reciprocated, simply move on. It will sting in the moment. It is similar to when an adult doused the open wound on your knee—the one you got from running too fast as a fat little girl with wobbly thighs, racing to jump into your grandfather’s car after school. 

But take that sting, just like the eight-year-old fat little champ you once were. Dettol solves every problem—even now. Douse your brain with the equivalent of Dettol. This could be comfort food or the people closest to you; choose your Dettol as soon as possible and move. 

People are flaky. The faster we accept this reality, the better. One day they love you, and the next they do not want to look at your face anymore. Accept the silence, do not reach out for answers, and move, move, move. Chop chop! You are not going to be alive for the next 100 years—30 at most if you are lucky. Choose people who choose you without hesitation, with enthusiastic love and suffocating affection. It is all or nothing. 

Ex-doormat, never a doormat ever again for the rest of my life, signing out!

The Mjölnir Matrix: Step Up or Step Away

Accept and don't expect—this has been my life's motto for the past five years. I certainly didn't expect my 35-year-old husband to drop dead on me one Monday evening, but I accepted it. Ever since, life has been a series of acceptances, because expecting leads to disappointment, and I fear my beautiful, hot chocolate and gajar halwa-eating heart may not be able to handle another one. 

I anticipate problems before they arise and eject myself from the situation, whether it is good or bad. Ever since I became part of death's collateral damage, I've decided to stop partaking in potential tragedies. Of course, I feel deeply for the people and situations I am with at the time. But if I sense I am being taken for granted—and those senses are highly heightened now—I simply leave. No explanations needed, and no questions asked. 

Worldly attachment to people and things simply leads to heartbreak. Therefore, do not attach until you see the lifeline being thrown back to you. It only takes common sense and basic intelligence to figure out who values you and who doesn't. The time for throwing myself into grand, dramatic gestures—like sacrificing my career or moving cities for a man—is frozen. Of course, this is a debatable topic. 

I am like Thor's hammer now—Mjölnir. My child and I will only fall into the hands of someone worthy; until then, it is a hard pass. I've seen too much of life and death to be a naive 20-year-old. If words don't match actions, once again, I simply leave—whether it is an organisation or a person. Leaving comes so naturally to me now; it isn't even scary. 

I suppose death does this to you. It gives you a sense of independence so strong that there is simply no going back. You have lived alone, played the role of two people all at once for one tiny human, and managed to sustain both yourself and that tiny human. Frankly, we've got this—monkey and I. So, you either step up or step away from every aspect of our lives. 

Uff! This piece of mine took a dark turn. I suppose I am dark yet light, similar to Enid Sinclair—the werewolf in me is dormant, yet begging to break free. Undefeated by death mommy and woman, out!

Friday, Freedom, and the Magic of Gajar Halwa

Friday, beautiful, beautiful Friday! It is the end of a murderous week of work and school, and the beginning of an exciting two-day break. I celebrate with gajar halwa every Friday evening, which is why I look like a well-rounded gajar on a weekly basis despite all the arduous workouts that I do. 

Ah, Friday! Doesn't the air just smell different? Moods are calmer, smiles are wider, and the promise of a glorious two-day break is what pushes everyone to close the week on a high note. Friday is my favourite day of the week—from morning to night. For my son, it's 2:45 pm on Fridays. He trudges into the house by 3:30 pm and flops onto his bed so hard, looking like a Greek crewman who fought under the leadership of Odysseus during the Trojan War and struggled just to stay alive during the tiresome and dangerous ten-year journey home to Ithaca. 

I am powered by "sugar-free" sugar all week long (although the sugar-freeness of that sugar is very questionable), which gives me artificial sweetness, goodness, and happiness through the weekdays. But the moment the first spoon of gajar halwa hits my mouth at 7:00 pm on a Friday, I feel all the tension in my body bubble to the surface. As adults, we suppress a lot of feelings throughout the week just to get the job done—both at home and in the office. 

Cheers to surviving yet another week, and cheers to that gajar halwa that I'll be gobbling down before the day closes. Harassed mommy and brain-fried corporate slave, signing out!