When the Grief is Griefing and the Gaajar Halwa Rules

I’ve been feeling particularly griefy this weekend, and I can’t really pinpoint why. It’s a constant, nagging feeling in the back of my brain, asking me, "Hello, is it me you’re looking for?" And I’m replying with Adele’s, "Never mind, I’ll find someone like you. I wish nothing but the best for you, too. Don’t forget me, I beg. I remember you said, 'Sometimes it lasts in love, but sometimes it hurts instead. Sometimes it lasts in love, but sometimes it hurts instead.'"

As one part of my irrational, emotional brain deals with the other griefy bits, the rational side pops out and says, "Girl, that ain’t you. Your husband is dead. You don’t have an ex who dumped you in cinematic movie style. Stop being dramatic now. Go stuff your face with sugar NOW!"

As always, I obeyed the rational side with utter discipline. I bought myself a 250-gram pack of Gaajar Halwa from Shree Mithai and pretended to share it with Mom. After I inhaled my share of the Gaajar Halwa, I stared so much at Mom’s bowl that she finally gave up. So, I ate her share and mine, and then knocked off to sleep in a Gaajar Halwa-induced, comatose state.

I woke up abruptly, still feeling tired, but decided to finish watching Project Hail Mary with my chimp. He was more impatient this time around and kept fidgeting next to me, walking away, and asking ten more questions along with his usual 10,000. We managed to finish the movie somehow, but my face looked like I'd been hit by a tsunami.

Yep, this weekend the grief is griefing, and I have no idea why. So, I’m just going to hold my broken heart and watch it self-combust until the point it says, "Yes, I’m done now. Let’s go back to the land of the living, shall we?"

A Cinematic Space Odyssey with Heart

Ryan Gosling is a man who simply refuses to age, and he takes on stellar scripts one after the other—Project Hail Mary being no different. His onscreen hesitancy to go into space, his deep bond with the alien he names "Rocky," and finally, the pure joy on his face as he became a teacher on Rocky’s home planet were all powerfully felt.

What made the movie even more special was my seven-year-old keenly following scene after scene, asking questions and fully engaging with the story. His sharp mind instantly reminded me of his late father's, and I shed a tear or two of pride.

People can be completely unpredictable, not just onscreen, but in real life too. Always expect the unexpected and, most importantly, expect nothing from anyone—even if they promise you the moon. The hurt might momentarily leave you feeling messed up, but there is usually some unforeseen reason it didn't work out. Years later, when you look back on a connection that failed, you will likely thank the universe that it didn't.

Therefore, much like Ryan Gosling’s character, Dr. Grace, let's fight the good fight and try to save the world without getting overly attached or expecting too much from people. It is the only way to stay sane and keep moving forward.

Image source - https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Project_Hail_Mary_%28film%29

Inside the Pressure Cooker: A Story of Grief, Overwork, and Sambar Vegetables

Grief and overwork go hand in hand. I say this with utter confidence because that is exactly how I have been living my life for the past five years. The notion of slowing down and trying to achieve a work-life balance is a joke to me; there is only work, and life just drags along parallel to it.

My first true jolt came in the summer of 2023—or was it 2024? I fail to remember now. I was hospitalised for severe breathlessness. The problem is that I have always loved my work. Across different organisations, I have poured so much of myself into my career that I have had nothing left to pour into myself or anyone else.As I lay on that hospital bed, looking at the petrified face of my four-year-old son, reality hit me. I realised I needed to prioritise him over any other passion or interest, starting with my career. Looking into his scared little eyes, I swore to myself that I would slow down.

Fast forward to right now: I do not think I actually have slowed down. While I have not been hospitalised for breathlessness again, my PCOD is completely out of control. My quarterly scans and blood tests happen like clockwork. Of course, it is all stress-induced.

My son’s life is equally stressful. At just seven years old, he faces monthly tests and daily homework. Our household has become a pressure cooker of daily, monthly, and yearly ambitions. He and I are like a medley of sambar vegetables—carrots, potatoes, onions, brinjal, and drumsticks—bubbling furiously next to each other inside the pot. We have not found our calming idli or dosa yet (pun fully intended, wink wink).

Because of this, I sadly feel like I have failed as a mother. My son has grown up watching a high-cortisol mother, and he has mirrored that exact trait. At this point, I am ready to try anything with him to blow off some steam and completely forget about work.

Our options are down to three choices:

A)Drowning ourselves in a swimming pool overflowing with hot chocolate (How many years have I thrown this wish out into the world? Do you even exist, Mr. Willy Wonka?).

B)Going to meditation classes (Cue the sniggering; two absolute chatterboxes going to meditation? Good luck to us and the rest of the class).

C)Enrolling in Mixed Martial Arts (MMA) to punch the life out of a punching bag, or whatever it is they do there.

And that is my story of overcoming grief—truth be told, I probably never did.

My Life's Greatest Creation: The Joy of Watching My Son Grow

You know your child is growing up to be their own strong, opinionated individual by the number of birthday party invitations they receive. It fills my heart with pride and joy to listen to the names of my son's best friends—numbers one, two, and three—as well as friends from higher classes and other sections. 

For the time being, his mouth flaps as much as mine, and he has managed to wrangle his way into the good books of some of his teachers. As I tell him every day: a happy teacher equals a happy school life, so always keep your teacher happy and listen to their words as if they were written in stone. 

So far, so good. Other than his language teachers, who have absolutely had it with him and his terrible handwriting, the others seem to adore him and call him "chella kutty." My cup seems fuller than full on those days.

More than your own success, it is the success of your child that fills you with utter satisfaction. All my awards, promotions, and literary achievements pale in comparison to my son's everyday joy in school with his friends and teachers. 

I love all his friends as much as I love him, and now I understand why my mother loved some of my friends too. It is because these children stand up for my son, are fiercely protective of him, and love him with all their hearts. Any little person who loves my son has all my love too. I consider them my children as well.

I highly recommend being a parent at some point in your life, even if you lose all your hair, your sleep, and your peace of mind. They are not just your legacy in the world; they are the better versions of you that go out and conquer. 

Trust me when I say that when you watch them grow and achieve things, your chest bursts with so much pride that you will end up crying happy tears of joy and experiencing feelings you never knew existed. They are a part of you, yet they are their own person. It is a hard act of holding on and letting go, but as a parent, letting go is an absolute must. 

Watch them spread their wings, make blunders, rectify those mistakes, and ultimately grow into sensible human beings. My son is my life's greatest creation. I have no idea what I would have done without him. He is the air that I breathe, and every stone that I am building belongs to him.

The Heartbreak and Healing of Female Friendships

It was all the female friendships that I cultivated over the years, starting from school right until my post-marriage years, that made me understand that I'm a bundle of mush. I really pour and pour into relationships, specifically female friendships, and when it's not reciprocated, it has broken my heart time and time again. That was the beginning of my trust wounds with women across age groups, starting from when I was 10 years old until 35.

I've seen my school friends drift away, my college friends leave, and finally, a really close friend of almost two decades vanish into oblivion the moment my husband passed away. These are women who swapped clothes with me, saw me grow from a rebellious teen to a rebellious mom, and saw me become a widow. So, it's just hard when one day they decide to stop talking to you. I remember all their faces, names, and every childhood memory so well that it breaks my heart. I've tried my best to revive these friendships, but to no avail.

As the universe and my Instagram feed tell me every day, "Don't chase." We should only give out as much as we receive; otherwise, you'll end up crying on most school nights, like I did as a teenager. Female friendships have broken my heart almost as much as my husband's death. It's so painful. I can't breathe, I can't sleep, and the tears don't stop. It's horrible.

Perhaps I have walls put up now. Or maybe not, because luckily, I am still blessed to have some great women around me and my child who give us a lot of love and affection. So, my hope and faith in female friendships continue despite the horrible, abrupt friendship breakups I've experienced over the years. Women truly can be your best friends or your worst enemies. Trust me when I say you have zero control over the outcome. All you can do is be your loving self and step back to see if it's reciprocated. If it is, you have a winner at hand. If not, simply walk away. Sigh! Female friendships are the best, if you can make them work.

From Superhero to Cuckoo Clock: Surviving the Wild Ride of Perimenopause Sleep

I'm not sure if I'm going through perimenopause or whether my inner Batman has finally woken up, with no Gotham to save in sight. I wake up every 3.5 to 4 hours every night like a cuckoo bouncing out of its majestic wooden frame from inside a cuckoo clock—those devices which look both magical and haunted. Remember them? Now, I am that cuckoo clock, Batman, and a perimenopausal woman all combined.

Sometimes I fall back asleep quickly. At other times, my 7-year-old screams, "Stop moving your fat body so much, maamaa!" I have yet to educate that kid on fat-shaming, body-shaming, or any kind of shaming, in fact.

The next morning, I wake up either feeling like a zombie or a very wound-up cuckoo clock, ready to go "Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo!" with 20 bars of chocolate pieces to keep my sleep-deprived brain in check. It comes and goes in waves—the sleep, I mean. As soon as I plop my head on the pillow, my power nap becomes a Kumbhakarna nap, and then there's more drool on my face and the pillowcase than the Ganges could ever produce water in its entire lifetime.

So, what exactly is happening to me? Why am I behaving like Batman with no Gotham to save and a haunted cuckoo clock? These are questions that will haunt me until the end of time, or menopause, or until I decide to build a Batcave and actually turn into Batman.

"You either die a hero or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain," to quote The Dark Knight. In my case, you either don't die from sleeping, or you stay awake long enough to see yourself become a cuckoo clock.

Gayatri out! Or should I say: ZzZzZzZzZz...

The Polycystic Nightmare: When the Soul Wants to Quit

To all my PCOD sisters, I feel you. I’ve lost weight, stopped eating, and exercised every single day without a break. I’ve cut sugar and carbs, and at this point, my soul feels completely cut up too. I am pretty sure she wants to escape my body, slap me hard across the face, and say, "Sister, please stop torturing me. Start torturing your ovaries instead!"

I’ve had countless TVS scans over the years and popped an astonishing variety of pills for the past five years. Yet, after every single scan, the radiologist says, "Yes, everything is the same. No change." Meanwhile, my wonderful gynecologist tells me, "No surgery for you, Gayatri, you are too young." Sigh.

Therefore, I live with the sensation of occasional knives poking me from the inside of my abdomen every time my pills fail to work—which happens about once every three to four months. This month is one of those times. The abdominal pain is nagging and persistent, and the back pain is so severe it would put The Hunchback of Notre Dame to shame.

I’ve lost track of how many chocolate bars I have consumed this week. My gynecologist strongly advises me to take Dolo instead of eating chocolate, but honestly, chocolate is the only thing keeping my soul alive right now. So, I choose chocolate. There is simply no method to this PCOD madness. We either wait for menopause, fight for a surgery, or wait for our souls to step out of our bodies and hit us in the face with a chair ten times. Even then, there is no respite from the pain.

Sigh, and another sigh—of the deeply painful kind. When will this discomfort finally end?

From "Food Feeder" to Finality: Why I Won't Settle for Half-Hearted Love

I was 18 years old when I bumped into my then-bestie, then-enemy, now-occasional-pinging-person—AJ. I looked like a football, and he enjoyed eating. His dream, even then, was to start a restaurant. "You can come and eat everything for free, G.B.," he declared as a young 20-something. The irony is that he is a successful restaurateur now, running chains across Hyderabad, Vizag, and Bangalore, along with being a father to an adorable little boy, and I haven't visited even one of those restaurants yet.

Before digressing further, going back to when I was an 18-year-old football, AJ was very clear: "GB, you must only marry someone who feeds you well. Every month you have to put on one kilo post-marriage; only then can you attain marital bliss. Also, don't change for anyone. You have to be accepted just as you are—a tiny, food-loving football."

I was on board with this delicious plan from day one. Luckily for me, four years later, I did meet a man like that who fed me endlessly—my late husband. He was clear about two things in life:

1.The way to this girl's heart is food.

2.The more I feed her, the more she will fall in love with me.

He was right because, years later, we got married, and I have produced a crazy child who is a mixture of both of us.

The point of this story is that I can't settle for "let's go with the flow" and "we'll see where this leads" when I once knew a man who was crystal clear that he wanted to be with me from day one. Half-hearted efforts are just not for me. While it is heartbreaking to accept in the moment, this one sad moment of realization can save you years of misery.

And that's why, ladies and gentlemen, I have been single for the past five years. I am yet to find my food feeder and the wholehearted acceptor of my crazy brains—and now, I suppose, my child's as well.End of story. Now, back to work, everyone. It's a Monday morning.

The Women Behind the Brands: Inspiration and Sisterhood at "She Builds"

I attended yet another high-octane Shakthi Circle event yesterday morning. Appropriately titled "She Builds," the event gave every woman the opportunity to discuss her professional journey, key learnings, and the challenges faced while climbing the ladder or building her brand. 

It was a supercharged morning with ideas flying left, right, and centre, giving each attendee a bird’s-eye view of what others were creating.

Rooms like these truly inspire, educate, and uplift. I have always believed that women can either be each other’s best friends or worst enemies. Women understand women like no other beings on Earth, regardless of their stage in life. 

There is an unspoken empathy, understanding, and sisterhood that can be felt within mere minutes, even when meeting for the very first time.

While the Shakthi Circle team—comprising Gehena Thilakesh and Vaishnavi Srinivasan—had positioned "She Builds" as an opportunity for brand building through storytelling, what I truly saw were the raw passion and the faces behind the brands that made each unique business stand out. 

Even four hours felt like too little time to fully grasp every unique business idea and the inspiring stories behind them. I left the room filled with knowledge and hungry for more. 

To top it all off, the icing on the cake was receiving an Oryessence gift hamper for each attendee, handed out by the chatty founder, Bharathy, herself.