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!

Jolted by Death, Bound by Love: Why We Talk About the Hard Things

Someone once said to me, "Riaan talks a lot about death and dying." Now, opinions are like farts, but this time I retorted as diplomatically as I could: "He was two years old when he witnessed death, so he's probably going to talk about it for the next twenty." 

If I'm almost forty and still haven't wrapped my head around not having a partner, my seven-year-old is obviously going to crack jokes about death. I am going to allow it until he fully gets it out of his system. In the meantime, if death, dying, widowhood, a fatherless home, and real-life issues trouble you, please keep a 100-mile radius from my son and me. We are vocal and hyperlocal. Cue the clapping for that rhyme! 

On a serious note, death jolted this household. To make matters worse, we are big talkers and highly opinionated. If you have one opinion, we have ten. The only person who gets to criticise my family has to go through me first. These are my monkeys and this is my circus. You have a problem with them? You talk to me. 

A fiercely protective mommy to the rescue, for life. Out!

The Privilege of Fitness: Why I'm Tired of Your Weight Loss Bragging

Yet another controversial piece of mine, but here goes nothing—I must call out this one category of despicable humans who think they've achieved everything in the world simply by being in shape. What do you want now? A gold medal for looking 20 at 50? No one's giving it to you, sirs or ma'ams. 

So you decided to take care of your health and made an active decision not to be a burden on your family and children by shaping up. So what? This is not an achievement that you brag about endlessly and rub in the faces of others. 

Now, if you work 17-to-18-hour shifts, take responsibility for aging parents at home, closely watch and manage the daily routines of a child or two, and still manage to lose weight? I will stand up and salute you. 

However, if you don't fall into this very specific category—if you just care about yourself and live like a little goldfish in a glass bowl with a makeup device bubbling oxygen for you (which basically means you're not even breathing on your own)—and then you lose weight and have the audacity to go around preaching to all and sundry that you lost 100 kilos, I will slap you with a metal chair so hard that even Thanos would wonder how that happened. 

Speaking as an ex-fat kid who is still "fat in the head," let me say very emphatically: keep your weight loss achievements to yourself. It's crass. Find a better hobby—read a book maybe, or read my blog—whatever catches your fancy. But whatever you do, do not, and I repeat, DO NOT brag about how you lost weight by starving, prioritizing your protein intake, and pumping iron. The rest of the world and I are not interested. 

Signed,

A mildly amused, but mostly peeved ex-fat kid, now an almost-shapely, almost-40-year-old mommy, out!

Chasing the Perfect Chennai Breakfast

I haven't gone on a single breakfast date that I have not actually enjoyed—ranging from Sangeetha to Ciclo, to those flashy, Instagram-influenced cafes. There is something unique about the crisp morning air mixed with the stifling, humid Chennai heat, and the confidence that morning calories burn fast. To begin the promise of a new day with burgeoning amounts of deep-fried food is just scrumptious. Just writing about this is making my mouth water. 

Most mornings, I feel like jolting my sleeping son awake and telling him, "Let’s make a quick dash for deep-fried carbs and then head our separate ways." But even as I process the idea, he slams me down like a sleeping Hulk Hogan, pinning me with one arm and grunting with his eyes firmly closed. 

I have always been a morning person. I love going to bed early and waking up even earlier—along with the owls and definitely before the crows. On most days, 5 AM is my wake-up time, without the alarm even ringing. There is so much time we humans waste just sleeping. Stop sleeping, start bouncing! 

Overexcited morning person, signing out!

My Life, My Bio: Owning Widowed and Single Motherhood

Someone I met three years ago told me, "You should probably consider removing 'single mom' and 'widowed at 34' from your Instagram profile. It’s very attention-seeking." 

I chuckled, continued sipping my sugary Lime Mint cooler from Fruit Shop on Greams Road in Besant Nagar, and never reached out to this "champion" ever again. 

Pray tell, how is being widowed and a single mother attention-seeking? To this day, I scratch my head at what he said. This happened during our first meeting, which, in hindsight, it is no wonder became our very last. 

Both of these life events have defined me, sharpened me, and heightened all my senses. So, of course, I will have them prominently displayed on a social media handle that is deeply personal to me. Of course, India is a democracy, so anyone can say anything to anyone—which is why I chuckled, reiterating my reaction from that evening three years ago. 

The deal is, people’s opinions are like farts. You can either choose to stand there and smell the aroma, or you can simply move away and eject yourself from the situation. 

Now, you will probably ask, "But this way, Gayatri, how can you ever have friends?" 

To answer that, let me tell you: I have exactly five to six really close friends spread across the country and abroad. I am happy with this bunch and quite reluctant to befriend all and sundry. I am simply not interested, and quite frankly, I don’t have the time to make over a thousand friends just to post pictures with them all over the city. Once again, not interested. I keep my circles tight and sensible. 

Every human being I meet teaches me a new life or professional skill, or simply makes me laugh. I don’t even look at the faces of gossipmongers and unambitious folks—that category of humans is a complete waste of time. 

Coming back to the point of this piece: I definitely don't seek attention by being a widowed single mother. I simply am. And I make noise about it because my work with that one human being I created—considering my very specific life circumstances—is a big deal, and I take full credit for it shamelessly. 

Non-attention-seeking, widowed at 34, single mother, out!

Learning Not to Be Two Parents

A day or two after my husband passed away in December 2021, my two-year-old rolled his travel suitcase toward me, lay flat on it like a baby Spiderman, and asked, "If Baba has gone to heaven, why hasn’t he taken his bag with him?" 

I burst into even more hysterical tears, completely unable to answer his question. But my son persisted: "Will he come back to take it?" 

Finally, one of my parents stepped in and answered, "No, Riaan. Baba is never coming back." 

We stayed in Bombay for close to three weeks after his passing to finish his last rites and pack my entire life of nearly eight years into cardboard boxes, all of which would be shipped back to my parental home in Chennai. On one of those final mornings, while we were playing on the apartment terrace, I wore my late husband’s flip-flops and an oversized metal band t-shirt. 

Once again, my toddler asked, "Why are you dressed like Baba?" 

I replied instantly, "Because I am Baba now." 

Mistake number one. Trying to become two people all at once is exhausting and logically impossible. I can never become my late husband—partly because I have a much better sense of style and far better taste in food! Kidding aside (perhaps this isn't the time to joke), I truly can never become him, and I shouldn’t even try. That is an honest explanation I later detailed to my child. 

Over time, his questions became more explicit, ranging from "Tell me the Baba die story?" and "What exactly broke in his brain?" to the dark humor he uses now. But he has coped—my brave little boy, who isn't a toddler anymore. 

Today, I receive the intense love of two parents, along with all the intense work that comes with it. I happily accept this responsibility, in this lifetime and the next. My son remains my life’s greatest blessing and the ultimate healer of a broken widow’s heart.

The Weekly Cycle

Monday dawns bright and chirpy,

Then the floodgates of work hit you, making your brain feel murky,

Mondays hold the promise of something new;

You simply want to feel anew,

By Wednesday, you desperately begin to yearn for Friday.

To quote my son, "Why can't we have a holiday every day?"

I wish that were the only way everyone lived,

Unfortunately, this is how generations before us have also lived,

The only way to break the cycle is to retire,

Yet the idea of life without work suddenly seems dire,

Monday dawns bright and chirpy,

Then the floodgates of work hit you, making your brain feel murky.