Once a Rebel, Always a Rebel

With all due respect, it's all the “reformed rebels” in the world who get the job done — on all fronts. It's a side of our personalities that doesn't simply go away with time, age or added responsibilities. Once a rebel, always a rebel.

Case in point: my 7-year-old.

He indulges in the naughtiest of acts and then promptly tells my mother, “But my mumma told me I can do it.” At this point, I step in and give him some solid, 24-carat rebel advice:

“That's right, I did. But do it intelligently — without getting caught, noticed or making a ruckus about it.”

The thing about being a rebel without a cause is that we feel deeply. Our EQs are up there on Mount Kailash, alongside Lord Shiva, as he occasionally smokes up and chills with Nandi and Parvati.

Like Shiva, we rebels lose our shit occasionally and then calm down at the same speed at which we lost our shit. The mood swings really swing. But trust me blindly when I say this: our hearts truly are gold.

So here's to always being a rebel without a cause, while keeping our focus on the greater cause intact.

It's okay to indulge in a little Rudra Tandav once in a while and let all that steam out.

Rage, if you know how to control it, is actually not a bad thing. It can heal and bring you back to normalcy. So go ahead and rage — as long as you know how to cool down, collect yourself and find your way back to normalcy.

The Sugarless, Non-Bitter Life

In the past five years, I’ve experienced death. In the last three, I’ve experienced the emotionally unavailable, the flaky, the unreliable and, finally, the sweet talkers—with and without chocolates.

As I open up almost every day about the horror stories I encounter with my forever best friend, my mother, she’s torn between giving me two kinds of advice: “Give up. Take a break.” And then, “It will all happen in good time.”

The past five years have been eye-opening, more than anything else. I’ve realised how emotionally available I am, how reliable I am and how blunt I can be with my words. I leave no stone unturned, both in thought and action.

I’ve stepped into the role of two people—not with ease, but with a quiet acceptance and ample support, both physical and mental, from my reliable backup squad, whom you all know very well by now if you’ve been reading my articles and my latest book, *The Story of One Single Mom and Her Backup Squad*.

Despite the deep loneliness and the crazy amount of work I throw myself into, there is peace in the lives and hearts of my son and me.

He’s definitely not lonely, though. That human chimp.

Just last afternoon, he locked his grandmother and me inside my childhood bedroom, transformed his naughty face into his famous Puss in Boots look and tried his absolute best to get away with it.

So, all our hands are full from Monday through Sunday, raising that hyperactive human chimpanzee who swings from one bedroom to the next and locks everyone inside bathrooms and bedrooms, both knowingly and unknowingly.

If there’s a semblance of a life in my otherwise meaningless life, it definitely goes back to my son.

Coming back to the point of this piece: despite the terrible, and then more terrible, experiences of the past five years, I’ve allowed myself not to grow bitter.

Some chapters I close willingly. Some, quite sadly.

Acceptance, above everything else, is what the last five years have taught me.

Accept people and their points of view without an argument, for your own sanity. Some doors shut on their own. Simply allow them to.

All those who were meant to stay, already are.

Keep moving forward, one step at a time—minus hot chocolate, apparently, as per my physician’s warning.

*Cue the heartbreak now.*

I’ve never eaten dates and bananas this fervently in my life. Life without sugary treats is indeed depressing. *Sigh.*

But a life without my voice is even worse.

So I choose the sugarless, non-bitter life.

On that note, have a fantastic week, everybody.

Happy Monday and every other day!

Five Years Without Poopie

Five years since I lost my Raghu and Rajiv-loving, Badshah-loving, overly-ghee-induced, mildly sweet paneer-with-jeera-rice-loving hardcore Delhi boy, who still clung on to some bits of his Bengali roots — like Durga Puja and select Bengali dishes such as aloo posto, bhoger khichuri, basanti pulao and daal.

Soft-spoken, gentle, kind and all heart — that was Poopie for you. I see some of those characteristics in our mini now, and it fills my heart with joy.

Life, God, death, circumstances, the twist of fate — whatever you want to call it — has been bloody unkind to my child and me. Losing a husband and father at 34 and 2 years old is not what we signed up for. Who exactly is writing the script of our lives?

Most times, we feel like the heroes of our story. But some mornings, like today and yesterday, I miss that dimply boy with the wild, curly hair and unshaven, unbathed look from 2008. All the more so when I watch videos of Raghu and Rajiv and recall how he would laugh hysterically until he began hiccuping uncontrollably every time they made a typical Delhi remark.

The past five years have been brutally lonely, yet eye-opening. I’m clearly able to see the flakiness and emotional unavailability of people within minutes. The world truly was never designed for people like Poopie and me — or, at this juncture, perhaps I should say just me, because even he chose his laptop over human beings when it really mattered.

When did being vulnerable and unselfish become such a crime? Is it a bad thing to feel so deeply?

16 Years in Communications Taught Me One Very Important Thing: Let Go

The world of corporate communications and public relations — how difficult is this industry to crack? Extremely.

Sixteen years later, I still don't know how good my interpersonal skills are, how well I read people, or whether I'm able to navigate a tricky situation with ease. There are just so many stakeholders involved — clients and media houses when you're working with an agency, and your own bosses and multiple external agency partners when you're an in-house communications person.

However, one thing I can assure you of with 100% certainty is the grit and determination that all comms folks bring to the table.

Want a gigantic logo of an award we recently won to be placed inside the palm of a senior spokesperson as he addresses an in-house employee town hall? Done.

Want coverage for a monthly cooking programme put together by the in-house chef? Done.

Want an entire property in Shimla to be written about by leading travel journalists across mainstream and regional publications? Done, done, done.

The "we can do it all" attitude, despite the 10,000 roadblocks in our way, is what makes a communications professional really stand out from the rest of the tribe. We don't have shame, fear or negativity in our blood. We make the impossible possible and bring a smile to the faces of even the most introverted leaders.

We walk the talk and make it look good.

I may be biased because I've been in this field for 16 years and this is pretty much all I know. It's been my bread and butter and an extension of my personality, whether I like it or not.

What my profession has done for my personal life is help me see people more clearly. You simply cannot bullshit a comms person in her free time. Your intentions become loud and clear to us the moment you utter the very first words.

Yes, it takes us some time to back away because we've been trained to "follow up", but eventually, we get the point and learn to let go.

There is maturity and strength in learning to let go earlier rather than later. The longer you stick around, the more "muck" there is, for lack of a better word.

So let go, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, comms folks and all the lovely non-comms folks in the world.

Let go — for your sanity more than anyone else's.

Sisters in Crime, Sisters for Life

The importance of sisterhood, family and friendship — how important is it to have sisters supporting sisters within a family? Super duper important!

I'd like to pull out a file from my mind diary right now. This was an incident that happened immediately after my husband passed away.

My lovely sister-in-law has been able to study my all-over-the-place personality, along with my sense of dressing, to a T.

She understands what dresses I like, the colours, the fabrics and everything in between. So, during one of those Dubai Mall outings with her, she stumbled upon a dress in a shop that she knew I would love.

Unfortunately, I tried one size smaller and found it difficult to pull it off. A teeny-tiny hole — so tiny that perhaps an ant could squeeze itself through it — formed on the dress. I quickly took one size bigger and ran away from the shop.

I confessed to her what had happened, and we burst into laughter.

Now, here's the plot twist: I had accidentally left my mobile phone inside the changing room of the shop, along with the one-size-smaller dress that I had ripped.

I was so mortified that I had to go back to the shop where I had just indulged in some serious criminal dress-tearing activity.

She encouraged me to run in and out of the shop to grab my mobile, with her in tow, of course. And lo and behold, I found the torn dress lying right under my phone.

I quickly grabbed it with a sheepish look on my face that was a cross between a bright red tomato and a guilty toddler caught red-handed seconds before they were about to insert all their fingers into an electric socket.

I grabbed my phone, held my newly purchased dress even more tightly with my other hand, and we ran out of that shop so fast that, five years later, we still haven't gone back there.

I haven't mentioned this story to anyone till date, so if you're reading this — now you know how to indulge in retail crime and get away with it.

However, I highly recommend not involving yourself in such activities. Perhaps just lose some weight meticulously every quarter, so that every inch of your body can smoothly fit in and out of dresses without ripping them.

Sisterhood: saving you from embarrassment, one ripped dress at a time. 

When Your Throat Decides to Shut You Up

How important is it to have pleasant physicians? Very, very, very.

I just met a super-round, very happy soul who pulled my leg for eating ice cream at 8 pm at night and then going to sleep. He also reprimanded my love for all things sugary and sweet. He did it with so much panache that I had to chuckle through my aching tonsils.

News flash! Apparently, oranges, watermelon and mosambi can aggravate throat inflammation. I obsessively eat oranges hoping they’ll keep me from catching a cold or cough. Guess who is laughing raspily now?

To not be able to speak **and** eat sugar? I might as well have been swallowed up by the Earth, much like Sita accepted her fate when Ram suspected her character after she was abducted by Raavan.

Two things make me, me: excessive sugar and talking. One gives me the energy to talk and the other gives me peace of mind. Thoughts always have to be freely expressed. Perhaps most of my thoughts, of late, in certain aspects of my life haven't been expressed freely enough. Hence, clearly, I've caught a severe case of laryngitis.

The body simply reacts in ways the mind cannot. Perhaps I'm not speaking enough. Or, if I have to be factually correct, it's probably all the varieties of sugar I've been consuming with the kind of glee that comes from the utter confidence that I will somehow not end up looking like a baby walrus.

Sigh.

I'm off to catch some shut-eye, keep my mouth shut and stay away from sugar for the next couple of days.

Cue infinite sighs now.

From Classroom Villain to Puss in Boots

I've been rotting in bed since 2 pm yesterday, burning up with fever, a severely aching throat, a lost voice this morning and, in general, feeling pretty useless. Just as the world's most depressing thoughts began filling my brain, my 7-year-old got carted back home this morning by his grandmother. I had packed him off last night so that he wouldn't catch my infection.

He began hugging me and patting me on the head like I was his long-lost pet dog. "Poor little maamaa, please don't die on me," he pleaded, running around all over the house and balcony, following me everywhere. His waist-down hugs were extra tight today, and his beady eyes were more moist than usual (picture Puss in Boots from the *Shrek* franchise).

And just yesterday, I had been called to school by one of his sweet teachers from L.K.G., who complained that he was distracting the kids in his classroom by taking his pencil box to the back of the class and using it like a gun to shoot objects.

I held back a huge chuckle, shook his teacher's hand and told her, "Ma'am, I'm on your side."

Upon questioning mini-me about why he had created a fictitious story about being the victim instead of the villain of the piece, he muttered, "Because you would have scolded me, maamaa."

Now, after that gun-shooting-with-a-pencil-box classroom villain act, he had transformed himself into Puss in Boots in less than 24 hours.

As I continue to feel useless, groggy, sleepy and voiceless thanks to my achy throat, I pray my Puss in Boots has learnt his lesson and decided to remain a gentle cat today who doesn't want to go to war.

I'm off to sleep now, Dolo-induced and fever-induced.

Thursday Morning Blues

I feel like I'm working multiple shifts today — school pick-up and drop-off because little sir's pencil box was confiscated by a teacher at school, and my regular work in between all of that, in full swing, with zero pauses.

A mild sore throat has decided to add to the confusion, and I'm ready to give up already. Where is the weekend? That distant beauty waiting to be explored with flu shots and food.

I'm experiencing Thursday morning blues from last night, anticipating a proper scolding from his teacher alongside the usual work grind.

I woke up at 7 AM today and realised just how mentally exhausted I am. Yes, I'm officially ready to log out of this gruelling week.

Can you hear me, beautiful Saturday morning?

The Potato Chronicles: Surviving a Trainer-Less Week

One week since my personal trainer quit on me and some other lovely women in my colony, and I am already feeling like a little potato. After a week of mild strength training and zero floor exercises, my paunch is out, and I am sure I look like a pufferfish in general.

Oh my god, the sadness of transforming back into a potato cannot be described in words. The agony of drinking a simple glass of water, only for it to feel like it is converting directly into fat on your body—sigh!

I feel helpless, useless, pointless, and every other negative word that ends in "-less"—except for my weight, which is far from less now.What do I do? What do I do? What do I do? A thirty-minute walk every day, along with fifteen minutes of weight training, is simply not cutting it.

After the vigorous floor training and weights that I endured for two hours every week, a morning walk alongside all the senior citizens of the colony is just not enough. Cue the waterworks now.

I can no longer eat a gigantic slice of blueberry cheesecake in peace. Forget moong dal halwa and gajar halwa altogether. I have stacked up on every variety of sugar-free dessert in the house, but every time I attack them, I can feel my paunch getting paunchier.

Where are all the female personal trainers in Chennai? Fitness gods, please drop someone right into my lap!

Two Women Who Keep Me Going

Here goes my umpteenth piece on two of my favourite girls from the past five years – Shina and Devyani. At this point, they will either take out their slippers and beat me once again or say, “We have no more cookies left to give.”

Shina and I are up to our usual crazy, haphazard Mission Impossible plans, with nine out of ten getting cancelled. But this is a big one, and if we manage to make it happen successfully, it will be quite something. So, I spewed all my anxiety at her at 5.30 pm, to which she promptly replied at 9.30 pm in the affirmative, with words that went something like, “I won’t ditch you. We will figure it out.”

I replied at 4 am the next morning with a kiss and invisible tears in my eyes.

Such green flags for friends I have.

Moving on to Devyani now. There isn’t a single playdate, irrespective of whether I’m physically around or not, that she hasn’t involved Riaan in. An entire day out of play across parks, play zones and restaurants is taken care of by his makeshift mommy of the day – Devyani aunty, aka Agu’s mother.

Honestly, what would I do without these two women in my life? One takes care of my child, and together they try to fulfil all my crazy desires to the best of their abilities.

They say well-behaved women don’t make history. By that logic, I hate to break it to you, but we’re all very well-raised and well-behaved women. And I think we’re all creating history in our own ways – at home, at work and everywhere in between that we set our minds to.

I wonder what these two women will talk about when they finally meet. One will probably talk about the pre-married me, and together they can talk about widowed me and mommy me.

Sigh.

I love the fact that they both love me, because there are moments when I don’t love me, and they remind me why I should.

Forever grateful and blessed, and never taking these two for granted – today or ever.

Cry First, Halwa Later

I'm going to openly admit this now: I've been a cry baby all my life.

One good cry session later, I'm ready to take on the world again. It's also quite easy to piss me off. Comment on my clothes, how I look, what I did — finished. The waterworks begin, with full force and instantly. My tears could put Madras Corporation water-tanker lorries to shame.

In the past five years, it goes without saying, I've cried worse than a newborn baby. But there's no one around to pat me on the back and put me back to sleep, so I self-soothe. A cookie or two, maybe a 250-gram box of moong dal halwa or gajar halwa, and I'm absolutely healed from whatever trauma was playing in my head.

No tears mean a lot of suppressed rage, and I don't do rage well. So I'd rather bawl like a baby and then transform back into my super-chatty, all-is-well-with-the-world self.

There's so much pain and suffering in the world, and I think we humans are experts at clinging to every single misery we experience in our lives. Perhaps we even blow some of it out of proportion, making it much bigger and heavier than it actually is.

Crying gives me peace, and so I'll always choose the cry-baby path.

For everything else, there's sugar.

However, if weight loss is your goal, I highly recommend only crying and then eventually falling asleep.

The Great Blister Battle: Ekalavya Without Dronacharya

My right thumb has a big, ugly yellow blister today, and I've had to type, eat, feed a tiny human, pack the aforementioned human's tiffin box, and tackle a whole list of activities for the day.

I feel like a Dronacharya-less Ekalavya today. Apparently, every single finger on our hands is important — even typing this piece out is painful.

I either scraped it yesterday while picking up dumbbells from my dumbbell rack or while latching cupboard doors. The blister is ugly and yellow. On a scale of 10, I'd rate the pain a solid 7.5 (the remaining 2.5 is me pretending to be Xena the Warrior Princess for the day).

I've been told to apply Vicks or Tiger Balm by the mothership. I'm hoping that works. Otherwise, I'll continue to be a useless Ekalavya who didn't even master archery for the week.

Not being able to scoop up food while eating has been my greatest sorrow today. My bite sizes are so tiny, I could cry.

Go away, blister! Shoo! Scram!