From the Frontlines of 1971 to the Battles of Life: My Rock, My Dad

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!

Blastu Blastu! Thalapathy Kacheri Indeed: Why Jana Nayagan Finally Made Me Understand the Vijay Hype

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!

A Letter to Heaven: Naughty 40 and Five Years of Missing You

My Dearest Poopie, 

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. 

Until we meet again. 

Love,

Your Poopie

The Ultimate Payasam Coma: Confessions of an Onam Feast Enthusiast

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!

A Crash, A Mountain, and A Memory: My 2009 Love Story

The year was 2009. I was an adventurous Scooty Pep rider, an aspiring postgraduate student, and an ex-Amazonian.

On the morning of 9th February 2009—coincidentally my wedding day in 2014 as well—I had a horrible bike crash. Scooty Peps are unstable machines; the tyres are too small to hold the weight of the vehicle and, perhaps, the rider.

I was riding down that familiar road leading to Ascendas where Fitness One used to be back in 2009. My relationship with Ascendas goes way back—I am an ex-Amazonian from when the Amazon offices were still inside Ascendas, an ex-Fitness One member, and an ex-Olamite/Mindsprinter (the offices for that last organisation are still in Ascendas).

Coming back to that fateful morning, everything broke: my right hand, my right leg, and my soul. There was blood everywhere and lots of screaming—from my end, of course. The rest of the day went by in a blur of surgery and anaesthesia.

Exactly a month later, my flat-broke boyfriend, who was interning at a company in Bangalore, drove down to visit a very broken me. I had a sticky head and we were both stinky—I couldn't bathe as long as I had the pin stuck in my right shoulder, and he just had poor hygiene.

My parents were shocked to see this round man. A million questions followed: "Who is he?", "How did you meet?", "We don't approve."

The rest is history, along with a baby boy named Riaan.The point of this story is, I know what a man in love looks like. And I know what a woman in love looks like as well. Mountains are moved by both people, and if there is not even an intention for that mountain to be moved, it is best to move on very quickly just to save time and heartache.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is my eons-ago beautiful love story, that went up in smoke—quite literally—five years ago.

Love—what a beautiful experience indeed!

Prioritizing Life Over the Laptop: A Lesson in Work-Life Balance

You cannot choose a laptop over people, or work over life. I know two people who did: one died, and the other was hospitalized. The former was my late husband, and the latter was me. He lived by the laptop and died by the laptop. I pretended to be Xena the Warrior Princess for about two years and tried my best to follow in his footsteps, only to end up hospitalized for breathlessness. It is simply not worth it. 

The Monday-through-Friday grind is important—I am not saying it isn't. It gives us a comfortable lifestyle, fills our brains with knowledge, and makes us feel important for those few hours. However, if you do not cut off beyond that time, you are missing out on this big, beautiful world created for us. This world is filled with hot chocolate, ice cream, plants, wonderful people, and an endless list of joys. 

Living is the part that truly matters. You must live. Your work will replace you in less than a week after you pass away; I closely witnessed this with my husband, who was a very senior, top-of-the-pyramid management consultant. However, you cannot be replaced at home. You are somebody’s something, so give that time and presence to the people who value you. Your organization, on the other hand, values you only as long as you bring value to the table in terms of deliverables. The day your performance drops, you will be dropped, or at least threatened with it. Conversely, if you slip up at home, you will still have an entire army that might be annoyed with you for half an hour, but will then bring you all your favorite food and drinks anyway. 

Choose wisely. Choose balance and attain inner peace like the Buddha. Remember to choose human beings, not laptops. Human beings will love you; laptops will only give you migraines and reading glasses.

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!