However cliché it might sound, Indian offices, whether we like it or not, are in fact a home away from home, and our corporate families are exactly that - a family away from the ones we have at home. After two years of remote working, stepping back into the organization that hired me in late 2024 did feel like a homecoming. All my colleagues rushed to greet me, asked me about my son, and wondered what I was doing in the office in the first place.
It was a warm, cozy feeling to know and experience that people had in fact not forgotten me. My floor is lively and vibrant with the constant chattering of people, and I added to the confusion yesterday talking about funky hair colors and tattoos and where to get them.
Daily Vibe Breakdown:
1)Morning (Until 12:00 PM): Everyone is focused on work.
2)Afternoon (After 12:30 PM): The lunch break sets in.
3)Late Afternoon (3:00 PM): Everyone gets ready to head back home in the next three to four hours.
Despite all the distractions, I was still hyper-focused at work and managed to get a lot more done as opposed to when I work from home, where I have to juggle home responsibilities as well. All in all, it was a memorable day one back at the office for me, and I look forward to the rest of the week going by as peacefully as possible.
After close to two years of working remotely, I have been called back to the office. I am absolutely terrified. I feel like a five-year-old who forgot to do her homework, knowing both of her principals are waiting at school to give her a lecture. My nervousness is at an all-time high.
Where will I sit to begin with? Will I be moving from one desk to another like a game of passing the parcel? Furthermore, my office laptop hasn't been connected to the corporate Wi-Fi in almost two years, so how am I even going to work?
I have passed my fears on to everyone at home. My seven-year-old has been reassuring me, saying, "Nothing will happen to you, mama, don't be scared!" However, he followed that up with unnecessary technical questions about my laptop, asking which processor it uses and the exact model name. When I confirmed that I am not a laptop engineer and haven't bothered to check those details, he tut-tuted, smacked his forehead with his little hands, and said, "How can you be like this, mama?"
The little boss at home is all set to manage things by himself today alongside his grandmother. Meanwhile, the anxiety in my head is incredibly real. Will anyone want to sit with me during lunchtime? Will the people I met two years ago even remember me?
I have so many questions, the answers to which I will discover over the course of this week. A very scared remote worker is officially off to the office. Wish me luck!
Connecting with my own teams across organisations for the past 16+ years has never been a problem. I love people and can strike up a conversation about anything—from their hairbands right up to who their favourite parent at home is. I'm that nosey little Indian aunty on trains who will offer you a Parle-G biscuit in exchange for your entire life story.
As I stand on the brink of returning to the office after close to two years of remote working, I can't help but think about the last team I worked with in person until November 2024. Let me tell you why this team was so special to me. Of course, they are gems of people—that's a given—otherwise, why would I write about them over and over again like a rabid person? No, the fact that they are nice is not why I think about them so often.
I think about them because this was the bunch of men and women who accepted a grieving widow's heart without dispensing too much life gyaan and unsolicited advice. I could be loud, noisy, sad, cranky, aggressive, and a whole list of other action verbs, and this team would just let me be.
I still remember the warm, day-long farewell they threw for me with all my favourite foods—butter chicken, cheesecake, and Indian sweets. They also framed a picture of all of us and handed it to me on my last day. It is only natural that I can never forget this bunch of beautiful souls.
Thank you, Corporate Brand and Communications team, for accepting me just as I was. Now, if this isn't a love story made in corporate heaven, I'm not sure what is. To the most understanding and empathetic team in the world: I miss you, and I think of you at least once a week.
Consistency, stability, and matching words with actions—every organization and human being must do this for you to have peace of mind. If they do not, eject and move on for your own sanity. The days of waiting around for a human being and putting up with all his eccentricities died the day my husband did. That woman is dead, along with her husband. The person who emerged after watching him go up in flames and floating his ashes away inside an insignificant tank is no longer a doormat.
I choose to never be a doormat of a partner to another human being again. I choose to be an equal partner whose life and opinions matter, rather than someone who is expected to "adjust" and "compromise"—something women have been trained to do for centuries. But here's the deal: women are equal to men, and they always have been. Try enduring periods month after month, enduring childbirth, and juggling a home, aging parents, a child, and work all at the same time. Let that sink in for a moment, and tell me honestly: what part of the life she is leading makes you want to tell her to "compromise and adjust"?
I love attending and listening to the success stories of female entrepreneurs and professionals. For centuries, women have suffered under the narrow-minded thinking of patriarchy, and it finally looks like it is our time to shine. So, let's get out there and do the best we can despite all the odds. Here's to never having to "adjust and compromise" ever again. Let us never shrink ourselves for another human being or an organization. Chin up, and fulfill all your wildest dreams!
They say you shouldn't speak evil of the dead because they are dead and no longer have the power to narrate their side of the story. But if the dead person is someone you grew up with, shared a life with, and had an entire human being with, I think that dead person owes the other all the venting she has inside her.
For someone who was so intelligent on paper, until this day my life's greatest mystery will be trying to understand how he was so stupid in real life. How could he have chosen work over and over again every single day for as long as he lived over his own family? How? How could he have died after a pitch meeting? How could he have died in the arms of colleagues and not mine? How exactly did that IIT Bombay Dual Degree holder in Mechanical Engineering let this happen to him, our son, and me?
I was so angry and disappointed with him for years after he died. He wasn't with me in the hospital during my delivery, he didn't stay at home while I carried our son, he missed our son's first birthday, and he missed most of our wedding anniversaries. Every expensive cake and roses he sent on a yearly basis didn't cut his presence.
My late husband has taught me the biggest life lesson—wealth and material things don't matter, human life does. We have two houses in Bombay. Do you know who lives inside them now? Cobwebs and darkness—the exact same thing that lives in my brain now, trying to figure out the purpose of my late husband's life. What was his purpose? To widow a woman at 34 with a 2-year-old? Slow claps for his soul in heaven or whichever godforsaken place he's chosen to go.
Whenever I saw bosses at work flip from party mode to work mode in ten seconds, attending meetings after a whole night of partying, I would look at my colleague and say, "Oh look! That's how my husband died at 35."
I remember the faces of all his bosses and colleagues, and honestly, they disappoint too. That entire organization and my husband reek of slime. Men in coats—I didn't trust them for a very, very long time, until I had to re-don one four months after he passed and I realized not all suits are evil; I'm not evil.
I'm a mother first, a corporate worker next—look at the order of my priorities. I've shut down from work on all the days my child and parents have fallen sick. Family first, always. These are the values I've grown up watching. So people choosing work over family and humans simply don't impress me. Just no.
It was only when I chose to forgive him that I found peace, and I'm no longer haunted by his traumatized ghost who knows he's done our family wrong. For all the heartbreak he made me endure, I know he loved me too—so much that I've never found another like him, until now.
I forgive you, Poopie. I know you're at peace because I finally am.
We all trauma dump on friends and family about the million life issues we face. For example, the very first sentence I uttered to my mother yesterday when she called was, "Mumma, I'm very cranky today. I'm not coming home. But what is there to eat?" Based on her answer, I selfishly decided to walk up to my parents' house anyway. Everyone has trauma and a certain trauma tolerance level. Some people survive our venting, and some do not. Family members, unfortunately, are stuck with it.
As another example, I get drunk on just one glass of a cocktail. My brother and sister-in-law then look super worried and stuff every carb in the world down my throat to absorb the alcohol. I am a very sloppy drinker because I rarely drink. During those "once in a blue moon" occasions when I do sip a cocktail, all the sadness in the world rushes to my brain. Suddenly, I become the world's unluckiest woman. It is a horrible cycle of self-pity and dramatic, doomsday thinking: "My life is over now. What else is left to do?"
Meanwhile, my son trauma dumps on me from morning to night. I have realized that mothers are often treated like emotional punching bags. Children dump their burdens, and we just have to let them. I listen to all his little big life problems and nod along. If I offer suggestions, I am suddenly the worst person in the world. But if I simply empathize, all is well in his world.
I am not sure if it is right or wrong to dump our trauma on other humans. I admit to doing this with family and really close friends. I have rubbed my scars onto them, and perhaps I shouldn't have. Yet, breaking down occasionally in front of my sister with big, fat tears is quite frankly the best therapy in the world.
Trauma dumping: what is your take on whether we should or shouldn't do it? Let me know in the comments below!
My father is a 1971 war veteran from the 4th Gorkha Rifles. He was barely 21 when he fought in the war and lost many of his coursemates right in front of his eyes. The 4th Gorkha Rifles played a key role on the Western Front, maintaining an unbreakable line of defense in Jammu & Kashmir. My uncle was also part of the Air Force during that same war.
Even now, my 75-year-old father still wakes up with jitters in the middle of the night, remembering the blood and the casualties. To me, he is a real-life superhero—every character created by the DC and Marvel universes combined.
When I lost my husband five years ago, he showed the same grit and determination as that 21-year-old soldier who brought victory to our nation in the 70s. When people ask me how I was able to move on—navigating the tears and heartbreak—I point to my father. He has guided and pushed me every step of the way, giving me the courage to be a soldier in my own life. To look fear in the face and never back down is what my dad has taught me, and continues to teach me.
From 6 AM wake-up calls for exercise to an occasional rap on my knuckles to do my math homework properly, Daddy truly is the hero of my life. He is rock-solid, dependable, and someone you can trust with your life and your children's lives. He is the best daddy and grandfather anyone could ever ask for. Fathers generally speak less, but mine talks a mile a minute and has a glitter in his eyes every time any of us do something worthwhile. He pushes me to be a better woman, mother, and human being. We love you, Daddy!
To be celebrated as such a loved actor and now a politician—I suppose this is any human being's dream. What a banger of a final movie the Chief Minister of Tamil Nadu, Joseph Vijay, has made! I could never understand what his hype was right from my D.A.V. days; all the little girls in my class were crazy about this lanky, hyper-dancing dude. However, I think I have finally understood the hype after watching Jana Nayagan.
The movie had every single emotion that struck a chord with me. He plays the role of a single dad to a girl he is not even related to, a saviour of the state, and a man who empowers women. He walks into a school and openly educates every child—including myself, watching the movie from the comfort of my sofa—about sexual abuse. Add the use of special effects in the form of a robot army, and my mind was blown so many times over during the course of those two-plus hours.
I suddenly found myself wanting to work alongside him and join his political party as a communications advisor. I cried when the girl he raised acknowledged him as the father who might not have given birth to her but raised her anyway. I also got goosebumps each time he slammed a patriarchal man in the movie who disrespected women by saying, "Women should just sit at home and make babies."
What a movie! What a movie! I am so sad I didn't catch it on the big screen—there goes my last chance to catch Thalapathy in theatres. I absolutely loved that one scene where a framed portrait of the late actor-politician M.G. Ramachandran (MGR) comes alive, calls out to Vijay's character, Thalapathy Vetri Kondan, as "Thanga Thalapathy," and drops a black leather whip into his hands to fight the corrupt villains (played by Prakash Raj in that particular sequence).
If I had any sadness about this movie, it was seeing my childhood crush Bobby Deol turned into a villain. From his long-haired "Soldier Soldier meethi baate bolkar, dil ko chura legaya" days, he has suddenly turned into the evil, power-hungry John Himmler after starting out as DCP Amrish Poojari.
Leaving that one sadness of mine aside, I absolutely loved everything about Jana Nayagan—from the women empowerment scenes to the robot army sequences, and the entire single-dad aspect. What an emotional rollercoaster this film is. I cried, I laughed, I clapped, and I didn't want it to end. Blastu blastu! Thalapathy kacheri indeed!
Five years since you've been gone. A lot has changed in this time. Your miniature is not so mini anymore. I've had multiple hair colour changes, two tattoos, and I'm going for the third one this year—all around Durga Puja time.
Sometimes I have morbid thoughts, like you coming back into my life as a half-alive zombie, demanding to know why I'm living in Chennai now and why I let our son eat Twix bars first thing in the morning on weekends. He talks a lot, our little one. He takes after me, obviously, but looks just like you. Unfortunately, he doesn't remember you at all, or even the concept of a father. He's a bold one—he befriends anyone and comes out with really controversial one-liners. Still, he is the love of my life now. Sorry, Poopie, that role was taken by him the minute he was born—you already know that. But I promise I'll let him marry whoever he wants, and I will not be an overbearing mommy.
I miss you whenever I eat a cheesecake from Starbucks or whenever I find myself making big life decisions, which has been quite a few in the last five years. I could never find that song you composed for me after you passed. I don't even remember how "Poopie Monster" sounds now. So how will people believe me when I say a man composed a song for me and made it sound cheeky?
How do you feel about turning naughty forty in heaven in less than three months? I'm excited for you, and I'm excited for me too. Although, I never needed to turn forty just to become naughty; I was born naughty—again, a fact that you already know. I hope heaven has all the limited-edition brands of guitars, monitors, speakers, and all those shiny buttons you kept tapping for you to create more disturbing, scary music.
It's almost Onam Sadya time, boys and girls! I'm excited to pig out and sleep already, thanks to my vegetarian and payasam-laden feast. My sadya is already pre-ordered for the year, and I can't wait to jump into a cab and bring it back home.
I am already internally calculating all the palada payasam I will overeat, so I must buy a minimum of ten extra glasses to drink again when I wake up post my Sadya-induced siesta.
Onam is the only time of the year that I actually eat a full vegetarian meal and don't count my carb- and sugar-induced calorie intake. All is forgiven until I stand on the weighing scale the next morning and realize I weigh the exact same kilos as a hippo. Then I'll be sad, but until the next morning hits, let me feast, feast, feast!
Growing up, Onam in Kerala meant dressing up and visiting my cousin's grandmother, who would lay out a feast of not just the Sadya but also fried chicken, fish, prawns, and every imaginable meat possible. Technically, that was a cheat Onam because it wasn't purely vegetarian.
But the texture of meat against all those vegetables, coconut oil-fried pappadams, and parippu—oh man, oh man, that was an emotion that just can't be described. If I had died and gone to heaven or hell after any of those meals, I would have died a very satiated and happy soul who would definitely not have taken rebirth.
On that note, Hridayam niranja Onashamsakal! May your sadya leaf never dry up, and may you drink liters and liters of payasam this Onam!
