What Death Taught Me About Control

As long as you understand that everyone in your life has a season and a reason, you're good to go. Unnecessary clinging and attachment will only get you into trouble, not the other person. At this point, I'd like to quote my own example. I still cling onto my late husband's memories and eat a cheesecake at Starbucks every alternate weekend. What is even the point? The man is happily sitting in heaven, strumming a guitar and sipping on a Bira. End of story.

Therefore, live in the present. That's all you have control over—not other people, not circumstances, not even your children. Just you. That's all you have control over: yourself. Control your emotions, be realistic, pace yourself, and slow down.

I've started thinking about the larger picture each time I meet a person, see a cute object, or face a circumstance—how long is this human, material thing, or life issue I'm dealing with really going to last? Then, I set my expectations accordingly. Death gives you so much wisdom. This wisdom, right here, is what I've splattered all across this piece. To be prepared for any nasties that life and people throw at me is what death taught me, and it's a skill I'm grateful to have acquired.

More realistic person, out!

The Lingering of Human Life Post-Death

Perhaps the real reason I haven't bought myself a Mickey Mouse watch again is probably because it will instantly remind me of the pink one I owned, purchased by my late husband for me from Hong Kong Disneyland's gift shop. There's another niggling part of my brain that also says, "The bracelet he picked up for you is still around, along with the purple Minnie earrings. Also, you're a grown woman—maybe keep wearing Superhero watches for now; those at least pass off to be adult and mature." 

The watch, along with Bengali food, is something I won't dare try again after all these years. The memories are strong. It is also the reason I'd probably never visit Bombay, Delhi, or Calcutta again, unless it's for work; then I'll have no choice. I call this the lingering of human life post-death. And this is the part where I tell you, just let your grief grief, because if you don't, you'll find yourself being hospitalized for breathlessness on a normal working day (guilty as charged). 

Jeera rice, buttery paneer, Puja Pandals, and cholar dal instantly remind me of my late husband's dimply face. That's my griefy fear, which I've simply refused to face in all these years. I'm still not brave enough to travel down any of these roads—culinarily or geographically—yet, and I accept my cowardice for now. Not-so-griefy person, yet grief-ridden on occasion, out!

Battlegrounds, Boundaries, and the Power of the Brew

For my brain, the caffeine addiction and withdrawal are very, very real. I can almost hear the gears in my mind churning the moment I sip that liquid brown gold. Conversely, my brain goes to sleep, protesting with a pounding migraine, if I don't grab a cuppa first thing in the morning—either with breakfast or right before it. 

I simply cannot function without my precious cup of coffee. It wakes me up and gives me the energy to deal with child and work tantrums—one often worse than the other. Someone is always crying somewhere, either on the work front or the personal front, and moods must be pacified immediately with calming words or hugs, depending on the audience. Without coffee, managing both of these audiences is tricky at best, to put it most diplomatically. 

I recently noticed just how acute my caffeine withdrawal is thanks to a severe case of food poisoning or GERD (the jury is still out on that one) that I inflicted upon myself. Because of it, I had to stop my morning cuppa temporarily. What a nightmare those days were! By nightfall, I just took deep, calming breaths and gave myself a pat on the back for having the courage to stand in the battleground and survive—all without my precious armour, my morning coffee. 

A dear musician friend, who passed away around the same time my husband did, wrote and sang an entire song called "Morning Coffee." I remember him owning all kinds of machines and powders. I totally get that now. I am closely following in his footsteps—minus the fancy equipment, though. I stick to my Levista instant coffee every morning, and with it, I prepare myself for battle. 

Caffeine-addicted survivor, out!

The Working Mother’s Dilemma: Homework, Guilt, and the Corporate Return

The greatest anxiety about returning to the office for me is my son and his unending school homework. Who is going to wander around the streets of Srinagar Colony searching for the right-sized leaf for him to colour on and then stick inside his Joyful Maths textbook if I am sitting in an office at 4 PM? Who is going to make sure that he studies for his pen-and-paper test the next day if I am not around when he is back from school? Cue the sad sniffs now. 

For me, this is like cutting the umbilical cord all over again. Choosing the office over home means choosing work over school. A part of me says I am a bad mother, and another part says the school books and the school came into the picture in the first place only because of work, so please go to work. It is a hard juggle—motherhood versus my career—and I am sure all mothers will quickly nod along when I say the guilt is a bottomless pit. 

We always wonder whether we are doing enough for our little ones to succeed at school. Did he get a C this time because I had to step into the office? Would he have gotten an A instead had I been at home? Then I think about his priorities in life: Minecraft blocks and T-shirts, playzones, and Skechers light-up shoes. Yes, those things could definitely not have been procured by him had he not cunningly brainwashed me and had I not been working. 

Still, I am conflicted. Why should working parents ever have to choose between growing careers and growing children? It is just not fair. Conflicted parent out. Cue one dozen plus sad sighs now.

Confessions of a Nonsensical Online Shopaholic: Where My Adult Money Goes to Die

I have been a victim of online shopping since time immemorial. Today, I would finally like to speak up about the atrocities committed by me—and the e-commerce sites that lure me into buying cute, shiny things. 

I hit my absolute last straw today. I ordered what looked like a nice, medium-sized Spidey pendant for myself. Instead, I received something so invisible it would escape even Superman’s eyes. It is so tiny that an ant could be best friends with it. 

I am finally ready to answer my chartered accountant and my parents. Every year when I file my taxes, they ask me that one dreaded question: "Where does all your money go, girl?" 

I would like to answer remorsefully now: "Online shopping." 

For me, online shopping is the equivalent of gambling in Vegas. I have completely lost track of the number of tops, watches, pieces of junk jewellery, and that one Chikan-work kurta set I've bought. Speaking of the kurta, it completely damaged my washing machine in a single wash because all the mirror pieces came unglued. This is what I have done ever since I gained purchasing power. 

To misquote a funny Instagram meme: "We're grown adults with adult money. We can buy and eat chocolate cake all day for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and no one can stop us." If I hadn't been dealing with weight struggles all my life, I absolutely would have spent my adult money on chocolate cake. Instead, I choose non-fattening things: clothes, curios for the house, and the occasional Masaba lipstick shade that never quite cuts it compared to the fabulous brands my sister-in-law promptly gifts me every six months. 

I digress, as always. Online shopping is the absolute bane of hard-earned adult money. Someone needs to either ban these shopping sites or ban me from shopping by taxing my existence. Either option works. 

Nonsensical online shopaholic, out!

The Boy Who Carried Me: A Tribute to My Son, Riaan

I recently rewatched that unforgettable scene from *Spider-Man 2* (2004) where Tobey Maguire's Spider-Man is gently carried through a train by regular citizens. After using every ounce of his strength to stop a runaway elevated train, he collapses from sheer exhaustion. When the passengers pull back his mask, they realize that their neighborhood hero is just a young kid. Moved by his sacrifice, they promise to keep his secret identity safe. When Doc Ock arrives to take him, those same ordinary New Yorkers step in front of the villain fearlessly, declaring that he has to go through them first. 

For some reason, my brain conjured up a deep connection between this cinematic moment and my own life. I am like that injured Spider-Man, and my son, Riaan, is the crowd of citizens who carried me when I could no longer stand. At just two years old, he suddenly had to become the "man of the house." As his "birthgiver" and "owner"—titles he jokingly uses when he wants to playfully annoy his grandmother—I can tell you he has done a brilliant job of filling those giant shoes. 

Even in the earliest days of absolute, maniacal grief, looking into my toddler's face always brought a single, fierce thought to my mind: *I must protect him with my life.* A mother’s love is fierce; she will go to any length to keep her cubs alive and thriving. My story is inextricably linked to his. Half of my healing lies in raising my child, and the other half lies in simply accepting the fragility of life. Anything can happen to anyone at any time, and my child and I are living examples of this reality. 

What a pity his father was not blessed enough to raise such a fine young man. Riaan is my very own Spider-Man, a boy who truly embodies the quote, "With great power comes great responsibility." Even with his two-year-old heart, he understood that his mother’s world had shifted, and he has done everything in his power to make life more than bearable for the two of us. 

To the no-longer-so-tiny human who calls himself "mini-you": what would I have ever done without you, Riaan? I am so incredibly proud to be your mother in this life, and hopefully, in the next.

Eight Hours of Hell

It hit me out of nowhere,

And I could feel it everywhere,

A bad case of food poisoning,

That left my mind and body no longer reasoning. 

The next eight hours were utter hell;

At the end of it, I felt like a drained-out well,

This advice played on repeat: "Chew slowly and don't gulp,"

Yet all I had been doing was gulping it to pulp,

Was it food poisoning, or was it GERD?

Either way, the lines were completely blurred,

My mind and body were no longer reasoning;

It hit me out of nowhere, and I felt it everywhere.

The Blue Whale Boundary: Protect Your Peace

I don’t chase, I attract. Men, women, children, animals—they either gravitate toward me or they don’t. I definitely don’t do any gravitating myself unless I see that same energy being reciprocated. While it’s great being Bubbles from the Powerpuff Girls for the most part, the flip side to this personality is that I’m a giver. I give so much that my family literally says, "Can you please stop it?" It is a total cut, copy, and paste situation with close friends, too. 

I take their advice seriously. When I sniff out that I’m not being taken seriously (which happens about once every three months), I blip out like a great blue whale. I sink deep into my ocean filled with bubbles and the equivalent of roses on the ocean bed. Yes, I’m a giver until I realize it’s not being reciprocated and I’m just being taken for granted. This realization usually comes late, unfortunately, but better late than never. 

There is no lack of love in my life. I have plenty of it, and I count my blessings every day. So, if you don’t come in love and peace, the front door is that way. Also, let's talk about clarity. Why don’t more fragile humans have this admirable trait? It’s hilarious watching people prance around in confusion, hesitation, doubt, and fear, knowing we could all be dead tomorrow. Anyway, peace out! Non-chasing Bubbles, out!

The Gayu Gyaan: Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Sugar

I've been told by close friends on numerous occasions that despite the absolute shit show my life has been—with a dying husband and all—I'm still incredibly positive and full of life, just like Bubbles from the Powerpuff Girls. To quote my favorite person, Shina, who once told me, "You're so full of life, positivity, boundless energy, and joy, it's hard for normal people to catch up." Cue one dozen kisses to my dearest Shina right here. 

If I deeply introspect the claim she made, I think I don't take life too seriously because I have firsthand experience with death. I know we all come with an expiry date, so there's simply no point in holding grudges or staying annoyed with someone—it's useless. During the very little time we actually have on Earth, we must behave like children: curious, inquisitive, wide-eyed, high on life, and definitely high on sugar. 

At this point, I'd like to quote an inspirational Instagram quote I read somewhere: "Why is everyone so against sugar? Who stood by you when things went wrong and you were hurting? It wasn't broccoli, that's for sure." 

To be completely honest, I hate all fruits and vegetables. I would happily eat dessert for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. However, since I am a mother raising an impressionable child, I force down large quantities of fiber just to motivate him. But when my 7-year-old isn't watching, I stuff my face with lovely, sugary goodness. On special occasions, the two of us will inhale a giant slice of blueberry cheesecake while sitting opposite each other. We smile with cheesecake smeared all over our faces and mutter, "Mmmm... so good," and he just chuckles and nods in response. 

Sugar is my secret to handling rejection, hate, stress, sadness, and low moments. Nothing and no one is worth losing your joy over at the end of the day, except your own peace of mind. Preserve it like gold (not the kind up your nose, but more like the stolen treasure inside the secret cave from Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves). 

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is my Gayu gyaan from me to you for the day: be happy. Like, genuinely happy—not sadistical-Joker happy. When you do, you automatically attract all things joyful, starting with people, things, and food. 

Unnaturally happy person aka Bubbles in real life, out!

Surviving the Screen: How I Traded My Late Husband’s Legacy of Overwork for Peace

I was 34 with a two-year-old when I lost my husband and partner of close to 13 years to overwork. It was a screechingly abrupt ending to a life I was piecing together brick by brick, like a Lego set. With him gone at the ridiculously young age of 35, I felt the very foundation of my life grow shaky. To the outside world, I seemed resilient; I threw myself back into the corporate world a mere four months after his passing. I could no longer sit at home undertaking freelance gigs. I took it upon myself to become both father and mother—a task I initially failed at miserably. 

At first, I behaved just like he had. I drowned myself in work, logging in at 2 AM and 3 AM for inconsequential tasks that could easily have been done during official office hours. In hindsight, the overwork numbed the intense pain of what felt like a deep betrayal. I felt cheated by my late husband, who had always prioritized work over our marriage, our son, and our home. I wondered why we had even gotten married in the first place if all he wanted to do was work and die. I was a "lock-and-key" wife, married to a high-flying management consultant who simply refused to slow down. I met his sleeping back on a few weekends, but for the most part, I was always home alone. I shuttled back and forth to the office, eventually carrying a massive baby bump with no husband at home. The loneliness crushed me, culminating in a complicated pregnancy that forced me onto bedrest by the sixth month. 

The point I am trying to make is that overwork does not impress me. I have witnessed a man live by his laptop and die by his laptop. And guess what happened when he died on the job? I received his laptop bag—minus the laptop. That is all he was to his Big 4 management consulting firm: a resource who won an important client for their organization. 

I still remember the last 24 hours he was alive. He shopped distractedly for shorts to wear at home at R City Mall, Ghatkopar, quickly rushed back, turned on his laptop, and continued to fine-tune a pitch presentation to win over an oil and gas company. I remember watching his tense face on that Sunday evening, still unable to shut down from work, and I sighed. He didn't take in the beautiful Powai sunset from our airy 10th-floor apartment; he barely even looked at our two-year-old boy that day. By the next evening at that exact same time, he was gone forever. 

I remember breaking down in front of his ex-boss and screaming, "Take me to him!" To my grief-stricken brain, he looked more alive and handsome than ever. It is a moment I will never forget—my handsome, young husband's sleeping face, with a very confused two-year-old being held above him. 

The next couple of dozen months were utter hell as I was forced to accept this new reality. Slowly and steadily, however, I learned that overwork is rubbish. Prioritizing your health and your family are the only two things that truly matter. I have always loved my work too—the only time I took a step back to freelance was when I wanted to have a baby—but I always prioritized home and family over my career, and I continue to do so today. 

I do not live by the laptop, and I do not log in beyond office hours. I am entirely unimpressed by those who overwork and consider working to be the only important part of their existence. My 7.5-year-old son, my health, my family, my friends, and my peace of mind are vastly more important than a career of 16 years and counting. My job is not my personality or my core identity. It is simply something I enjoy doing because I like a daily challenge. A new delivery or a shift in a deadline thrills me, but I will never let it kill me—not today, not tomorrow, and definitely not the day after. 

The disappointment I felt toward my late husband slowly turned to acceptance, and finally, to forgiveness. In forgiving him, I found my peace. And that is my story of handling grief.

Why I'm Stepping Away From Complex Friendships

Here goes yet another controversial opinion of mine into the world—one that will probably make an entire gender hate me—but here goes nothing: I’ve always been a man’s woman, more than a woman’s woman. 

These are the reasons why: Men don’t speak in riddles; everything is either black or white. Whatever is on their minds comes out quickly from their lips. They don’t hold grudges for years or guard past incidents like a Chamber of Secrets. While petty jealousies and constant comparisons exist everywhere, they are rarely as overt as they are in female circles. I have watched female friendships of many years turn sour for absolutely inconsequential, moronic reasons. 

I give up on trying to figure out the minds of my own gender. We are too complicated and just seem to love making life complex. I’m out! I absolutely do not want to be a party to it. You’re jealous? Great. Keep doing that. You want to compare your life to mine? By all means, go ahead—just do it without me in your life. 

I can feel it in my bones when a secure friendship turns sour, and frankly, I no longer want to stay. I become polite at best, but I am definitely no longer invested. Life is fragile and time is way too short for me to figure out why someone is competing with a woman who lost her husband five years ago. I can sense when you are counting the eggs in your basket versus mine, and I don't like it. 

What started this entire thought process at five o'clock this morning was staring at my anchor tattoo and reminiscing about my late grandfather. I am his legacy to this world. I live by his ideologies: mind your own business, put your head down, and work hard. He was quieter, of course—perhaps no one talks as much as my dad, my son, and me—but the rest of me is all him. I am a simple, genuine soul who speaks her heart out. I don’t have time for comparison games and petty jealousies. Please take them elsewhere.

The Myth of "Sleep When the Baby Sleeps" (From a Tired Mom of a T-Rex)

"Sleep when the baby sleeps" is definitely the most nonsensical advice given to mothers since time immemorial. My baby hasn't slept since 8 January 2019, and he hasn't let me sleep either. He is now seven and a half years old. My power naps and gorgeous weekend siestas are completely ruined by my little T-Rex, who jumps on me with full force, shakes me violently, and finally tries to stuff Lego pieces up my nose and ears. 

So no, ladies and gentlemen, "sleep when the baby sleeps" is the most factually incorrect advice ever passed down from one generation to the next. 

As I mentioned to someone yesterday, most people are cranky and emotionally dysregulated. Do you know how that happens? A lack of sleep. To emphasize this further, I said, "I am the drama if I don't sleep." I need my glorious seven to eight hours at night, along with the occasional 45-to-60-minute power nap during the weekends. 

To quote Iron Man: "You can take away my house, all my tricks and toys, but one thing you can't take away—I am Iron Man." 

Now, to reword this for me: "You can take away my power nap, and I'll turn into a sleepy, emotionally dysregulated menace. I'll snap at you, and you, and you!" 

Just let me sleep, my child! And children everywhere, allow your mothers to sleep. 

*Big, fat, sleep-deprived, sorrowful sigh.*

Not Everyone's Cup of Tea: Turning 40, Talking Loud, and Setting Shit on Fire

I loudly announced to my team this morning during our scrum call that I can't wait to turn 40 in the next six months. My bones are at their creakiest best, my child is at his crankiest, and my back is ready to give up on me any minute now. Yet, "I know what I bring to the table professionally and personally," I loudly declared with both fists up in the air. Everyone sniggered, myself included, and I promptly added, "Too much information, as usual."

I must admit, though, I wasn't this confident even five years ago. That is terrible timing to mention, because that is exactly when my life changed forever. Is it just me, or does every 40-year-old feel the same?

Something about living half your life, witnessing death, and achieving things you thought you never could—such as traveling internationally alone with your child—is probably what gave me this confidence. Or perhaps it's the solo lunch, movie, and shopping dates I've taken myself on. Or maybe it's just the fact that I can pull off any outfit, with or without a food belly.

I'm not exactly able to pinpoint what led to this feeling, but I just feel content with my weird, little, loud self. I've accepted myself with all my quirks, and I accept that not everyone is going to like me. To quote an Instagram caption I read the other day: "You don't have to be everyone's cup of tea. Be gasoline. Set shit on fire."

On that note, I don't even like tea—especially not green tea. I just pretend to like it because I'm middle-aged now and hope to burn off my decadent meals by sipping on it. I'm more of a filter coffee or black coffee drinker. The darker the better—just like my son's humor, which is so dark and twisted that I choke back either laughter or tears listening to him crack jokes.

Almost 40-year-old woman, out!

Sardines, Stage Fright, and Shuttling Home: A Very Indian Thursday

Every year that my child takes the stage, I have more stage fright than he does. My mind is plagued with anxiety and doubt. I constantly question: Will he trip and fall on stage? Will he freeze upon seeing the audience? Will the mic stop working exactly when he has to deliver his dialogue? Will he be so sweaty that he collapses from the heat? 

My fear is valid because that last scenario actually happened earlier this week while he was practicing on stage with his classmates and teachers. So, it was quite natural that I suffered a 24-hour migraine that started at 4:00 AM yesterday morning. My heart was pounding hard in my chest as I dropped him off at the green room and said goodbye. By the end of the evening, though, I sighed a huge sigh of relief. I waved, smiled, and made conversation with his teachers and the mothers of his little friends. 

Perhaps my extreme anxiety and sleep deprivation passed right into my car, because it broke down on the side of the road with my entire family inside. We tried our best to bring it back to life, but to no avail. Finally, we flagged down an auto-rickshaw and stuffed ourselves—two children and three adult women—inside the vehicle. In that moment, we would have put canned sardines and the Mumbai local train's ladies' compartment to shame! 

My very Indian mother managed to scandalise my very NRI nephew a minimum of 100 times during that 45-minute auto ride home, saying, "See Vivi, you're in the middle of a very Indian adventure. You will never forget this holiday of yours!" Being the complete sport that he is, he didn't utter a single complaint. He simply made room for all of us, especially his mother, whom he kept reassuring to sit comfortably. I felt so much pride and joy in that moment, seeing his protective instinct and affection toward his mother. That is one non-indifferent teenage boy with a ton of empathy! 

My son, on the other hand, nattered endlessly and cracked a dozen inappropriate jokes, with each of us taking turns to say, "Please keep quiet, Riaan." 

So, that was my Thursday morning, evening, and night for you. Whew! I'm exhausted just typing all of this out. Thank God it's Friday. I'm all set to wrap up work faster than The Flash today and finally get some sleep!

An Evening of Pride and Promise: Bala Vidya Mandir’s Annual Day

I think it is safe to say that every parent, grandparent, aunt, cousin, and uncle felt a deep sense of pride watching the little monkeys in our family turn into gentlemen and young women for one beautiful evening. Year after year, the annual day function serves as the culmination of the hard work of teachers, the chaotic running around by parents for costume coordination, and, finally, the dedication of our children to put up a show that will be remembered for an entire year—until the next one arrives. 

I know I am doing something right in the world when I see my child take the stage year after year, perfectly performing the part assigned by his diligent teachers. For that one evening, every family member gathered in the hall sings, dances, and claps along with every little one on stage. This country possesses such bright young talent. That is an incredible amount of potential stepping into the world, and I know Bala Vidya Mandir will mould them absolutely right as they transition into future leaders. 

My heartfelt gratitude goes out to every teacher, volunteer, and child for giving us yet another memorable Annual Day. I cannot wait for the next one!

High Stakes and Human Mistakes: Delivering Results as a Mother and a Professional

As a mother and a working professional, there is only one feeling I have from Monday through Sunday—extremely frazzled. Even then, as all working professionals and parents will quickly agree, there are only two aspects of my life that really matter: my son, who is my legacy to the world, and my work, a part of myself that I continuously put out there to contribute to my organisation and, ultimately, society at large. Everything else in between is just fluff. 

How good of a job am I doing as a mother, teammate, peer, and employee? Is my son satisfied with the amount of time I spend with him? Are my bosses happy? Are my peers—both juniors and seniors—able to learn something new from me every day? And am I learning something new from them? Frankly, these are the only things that matter in the grander scheme of things. 

I remember juggling my laptop over advertisement copies while nursing my son in the wee hours of the night, driving myself, him, and perhaps my then employer completely mad. But even as I reached the brink of insanity balancing work and a newborn baby, I ensured that I delivered everywhere. And that is all that matters, folks—delivery. Timely delivery that is accurate and without a single mistake. 

You cannot send organisation-wide emails to over 1,000 employees informing them about a town hall in a 7-star hotel without getting your facts right. And if you do (guilty as charged!), you quickly unsend that email, take ownership of your mistake, and keep moving forward. 

Corporate slave and devoted mommy, out! 

What did you learn today? I would love to know in the comments section below.

To My Safe Space and Sister from Another Mother

My dearest Oishee, 

I have completely lost track of the number of nonsensical voice notes I have sent you over the past two years, which you have always simply understood. You are the first and only person to ping me, whenever I am on leave. We are trauma-bonded, period-bonded, life-bonded, and just truly sisters from different mothers. 

Life without you around in a couple of months is incredibly hard to imagine. Whose brains and WhatsApp screen will I bombard now? I can already feel and see this sudden, looming vacuum once you leave. You are my survival kit and my ultimate safe space whenever my mind wants to flit. How exactly am I supposed to navigate daily life without sniggering and giggling by your side? 

Words are far too small to describe how much I am going to miss you. Rest assured, I will continue to bombard your WhatsApp screen with completely out-of-context messages, which I already know you will understand. 

This is not a goodbye, my Oishee. This is an "I am going to catch a flight to Hyderabad very soon and we are going to have that cocktail" letter. 

Love,

The mad person you have come to know as well as yourself, 

Your Gayatri

Back to the Cubicle: The End of an Era (and the Return of My Sanity!)

The days of remote and hybrid working have come to a full stop, and I've been told to come back to the office. The mom and daughter guilt kicked in hard as I broke the news to my son and my parents. And guess what their reaction was? Utter relief. My mother just grunted and said, "Please go to the office," and my 7-year-old's face lit up so bright he looked like a cross between a Bumblebee and a Cheshire Cat. I burst into laughter. Clearly, no one at home was going to miss me! 

So, off to work I go with my 10,000 multicoloured accessories, high-voltage chattering personality, and a post-lunch tiredness that is going to kick in so hard I'll definitely miss my bed. So that's that—the end of an era of one dreamy way of working. 

I can't say I was the biggest fan of remote working anyway, because I wasn't built to sit quietly at a desk and be hyper-productive. It was very unlike me! No, I've always loved in-office setups because I get to discuss everything and nothing under the sun with all and sundry. What a glorious feeling it is to meet human beings once again and chew their brains off. Ooh, and the sugary coffees—a 10-kilo weight gain, here I come! Bring on the office selfies, office gossip, long strolls post-lunch, and finding out the name of every single receptionist and security guard. 

Wheeeeeee! Life is looking mildly exciting again—like oregano on pepperoni pizza, extra peppers on pongal, and cardamom inside Mutton Biryani.

Moving Past the "Fat Thor" Era: A Fresh Start

Holiday weight, that dreaded stubborn belly fat, and the sudden 2-kilo weight gain that slaps you from simply sniffing a dark chocolate bar. I blame my big brother for looking like Thor from "Avengers: Endgame". He brings too many sweet liquor bottles, gigantic bars of chocolate, and dates of every variety. Evenings fly by in eating and overeating, talking and over-talking. 

No, I cannot look like fat Thor anymore. Instead, I am going to take his mom's advice just before he rushes back to the future with Rocket Raccoon. He hugs her and says, "I love you, Mom," and Frigga, his mom, replies, "I love you. And eat a salad!" right before he calls for his hammer, Mjolnir. 

"Yes, I'm still worthy too," I muttered this morning, quoting Thor again to my Gen Z trainer when she asked, "Are you walking and swimming every day?" The judgmental little thing immediately spotted my liquor, meat, and chocolate belly. 

This stops today! No more heavy food for me from this moment onwards—only smoothies and maybe a piece of dark chocolate. Okay, two, if I have to be realistic. 

"Fat Thor" out!

I've Got This Handled: A Journey Through Loss

Grief is nothing but a celebration of love. The amount I've spoken about my late husband in the past five years with friends—old and new—and family, of course, is endless. From Milo milkshakes to Tumi bags, to all our holidays and every restaurant he ever took me to in my life—everything has been written about, spoken about, and photographed so much that people around me are either tired, amused, or irritated. 

I can't help it though: a) I'm a chatterbox, and b) it was probably a good marriage/relationship, even though we had our share of fights. That one man made me realise I can love fiercely, intensely, and give it my all. All of me truly did love all of him, to quote John Legend. Either he brought out all that love from within me, or I was raised by a suffocatingly loving family—it's a combination of both I guess.

When I think of my late husband, I think of him with love and almost zero hate. In the past five years, I've forgiven him for abruptly dying on me and our son, and in that forgiveness, I've found peace. I wonder which stage of grief I'm in now—perhaps it's acceptance. I'm at peace with having a husband who passed five years ago; I no longer curse him when I have to take decisions alone for my family of two. 

Rest in peace, Poopie. I think I've got this handled—life and motherhood, I mean.

A Parent's Dual Mind

My 48-inch personal photographer had a fainting spell today,

It was enough to take my breath away,

His teacher assured me that he was his usual chatty self,

With a mouth that flaps too much for a little elf,

My brain immediately split in two,

Half at work, half at school, as the panic just grew and grew,

He bounced in at three as usual,

sounding a little too casual about his fall,

His baby ego also took a fall from his lack of body control. 

By evening, the entire day had taken its toll on his little mind,

He turned into a little demon—the screechiest kind,

My 48-inch personal photographer had a fainting spell today,

It was enough to take my breath away.

Post-Vacation Blues and the Laundry Mountain

A relaxing getaway is all well and good for the mind, body, and soul. However, what is not fine is the pile of laundry you bring back at the end of that getaway, which immediately undoes all that relaxation. Four piles of stinky clothes have been washed today from our recent beach vacay, and I am ready to just curl up in bed now and wake up after 100 years.

Of course, I am dreading the Monday morning grind, which is dancing uncomfortably close to my face. I am ready to reload on that holiday now—minus the pile of laundry afterwards. Massive, bittersweet sigh! Why do good things always come to an end? Why did our holiday have to end so fast? Why do we have to wear so many clothes and swimming costumes during the course of the aforementioned holiday?

I am as heartbroken as my 7.5-year-old now. Today definitely feels like the worst day of my life because, from tomorrow, we are both "going back to hell"—his words, which I would like to cut, copy, and paste. He is lying on my bed now with Tiger Balm all over his leg and a gloomy look on his face, gloomier than Doctor Doom, I can assure you.

I look happy on the outside as always (a deep-rooted childhood problem which has no solution, unfortunately), but I am so sad on the inside that I could probably cause volcanic eruptions along the Ring of Fire in the Pacific Ocean, Indonesia, and Iceland. So, that is that. Goodbye, happy vacation; hello, mountains of laundry that just do not seem to end. My washing machine probably wants to slap me now.

Sun, Sand, and Seafood: Our Blissful Escape to Poovar

Beautiful, green, and sultry Poovar is the perfect quick getaway with family if you love seafood, sun, sand, pristine seas, and boat rides. All you can do here is eat, sleep, do a mild amount of sightseeing, and repeat.

Our holiday is coming to a close in less than 24 hours, and my son and I are already feeling the Monday morning blues. We checked in at Isola Di Cocco, a charming Ayurvedic beach resort, late Thursday afternoon. We have been eating, swimming, and sleeping ever since we arrived. The weather makes you want to just snooze because it is burning hot outside.

We indulged in a lovely boat ride around the breezy island of Poovar on Day 2 and visited the stunning Aazimala Shiva Temple on Day 3. Now, it is almost time to head back home. Cue the sad music!

The staff at Isola Di Cocco are warm and friendly. The food is scrumptious, and the pool beckons you after every meal to melt away all those extra calories. I am going back home three kilos heavier in body, but three kilos lighter in spirit. I highly recommend Poovar and Isola Di Cocco for anyone looking for a quick getaway from the mundane Monday-through-Friday drill.

I have lost track of the number of glasses of sweet and salty lime soda I have had, along with Uncle John's ice cream and every variety of fried vegetarian and non-vegetarian delicacy. I am off to sleep now for an hour before my child knocks me on the head with his swimming goggles and drags me back to the pool. Goodnight, everyone! What bliss it is to enjoy heavy afternoon siestas after indulgent seafood meals.

Burp, snore, splash, repeat!

Endless Plates and Infinite Love: Welcome to My Family

My family shows love through food. The more you are fed, the more you are loved. Personally, I am not just loved; I am doted on and endlessly pampered, treated like the youngest even when the next generation sits right next to us, nibbling on all that gorgeous food.

Yesterday, I visited the house I grew up in. My uncle (Mohan uncle) and cousin (Swaroop chettan) had already left for the U.S. for the World Cup, but they left their presence behind in spirit—in the form of a mountain of gifts, food, and a dream cake chocolate tub. As I ate my way through the decadent spread of fish fry, prawn fry, chicken curry, fried rice, pappadam, and payasam, I probably shed an invisible half-tear. I pictured my cousin, his family, and my uncle sitting at the table, eating along with the rest of us.

However, the food was so spectacularly good that I had no time to feel sorry for them—or myself—for missing out on that shared time. Instead, I did exactly what my late grandparents trained me to do since I was four years old: eat like a pig. I truly wished I had two stomachs for breakfast and lunch yesterday.

My cousin, Sowmia, has turned out to be even more loving and suffocatingly hospitable than my late grandmother. She doesn't sit still or sit down to eat with the rest of us until everyone is fed and overfed, and until every last pappadam and puri reaches the table from the kitchen.

Welcome to my home and my family—where the food never ends, and the love is infinite. Yesterday afternoon, when I mentioned feeling lonely without a husband, my mother pointed to the army sitting around me and said, "You have all of us. You will never be alone.

The Confessions of a Workaholic: Why I Can't Stand the "Sabbatical Bro"

I'm probably going to get a lot of hate for writing this piece, but here goes nothing: I don't like people who are on perennial sabbaticals and have no major life goals to conquer and achieve. Before you hit the close button on this piece, hear me out.

I didn't take a sabbatical from work after I delivered my child, while nursing him during the wee hours of the morning, on my husband's death anniversary, on his birth anniversary, or even on the day we met when he was alive. Add to that, my 35-year-old husband dropped dead at work. It's safe to say, and I think it's been clearly established: I'm a bloody workaholic. It is not something I admit with shame or pride; I simply state hard facts. This is who I am.

I've rebelled against bosses and work cultures that don't fit in with my core ideologies. That being said, I'm grateful for the 16 years I've put in across various organisations, industries, and sectors. I am grateful and blessed to have worked with some of the sharpest minds across industries, and I still have a lot to learn and a lot to achieve. I don't want to retire at 60. I have wonderful uncles in my family to look up to who haven't stopped sailing and haven't retired from their merchant navy careers well into their 70s. (I'm talking about you, Aji maama—I'm sure you're reading this!)

So no, I simply hate people without goals who are sitting tight at home with zero aspirations for themselves. Stay-at-home mums are not included in this list; they have aspirations, and those are tied to their kids. I was raised by a strong stay-at-home mum, so I'm leaving this crowd aside when I state that I don't like people without goals.

The next category of people I don't like are the braggers. Five years of work experience, one unheard-of award somewhere, and suddenly they think they're Elon Musk. Out! Just get out of my face before I punch you on the nose and hand it to you to get stitched back up in an ENT ward. Just get out into the world and throw yourself hard at work.

Take your sabbaticals post-6 in the evening and run multiple side hustles. Financial freedom, regardless of gender, is priceless. It simply gives you peace of mind and buys you all the luxuries in the world. So why deny yourself that?

I am ready to give a TED talk now on the various categories of "sabbatical bros and sisters" I've met through the years. The PPT is in my head; I just need someone to push me out there, let me crack a bunch of offensive jokes, and then I can breathe in peace.

Workaholic out! Holiday mode on (but only for 4 days).

From Baby Whale to Waka Waka: My Post-Dessert Fitness Plan

What a time for Shakira to drop "Dai Dai", the official anthem for the 2026 FIFA World Cup, looking the way she does—smoking hot at 49! Hips that look like they can melt butter and a face that can make angels take off their robes along with their wings, saying, "Join us!" 

I repeat, what a time for Shakira to drop "Dai Dai" because I'm right in the middle of a mini family vacation, chomping on every variety of dessert, dates and junk food and looking like a baby whale. I sniff and put on 500 grams, another two sniffs and my weighing scale will probably break.

 

I'm so ashamed to look the way I do—a small podgy balloon—in the face of a very fit and shapely 49-year-old Shakira. Being a decade younger than her, I'm motivating myself to skip dinner for the rest of the week while thumping down half a jar of Nasi and Mee's Milo Tiramisu and one gigantic triangular piece of Toblerone. 

But from tomorrow, after I finish eating all these sugars, I will skip dinner and soon, in another decade, I will definitely look like Shakira. 

In her words, "You knew from the day you were born, That here, in this place, you belong, You've been this brave all along, What broke you once made you strong."

My Pillars of Strength: A Note of Gratitude

A moment of appreciation for this couple who have quietly stood by me as I fell apart and slowly pieced my life back together bit by bit—my big brother, Arjun, and my sister-in-law, Vandana. There have been countless moments where I have been irrational and griefy, and they have quietly just let me be. They are both experts at gauging my expressions and have held me up, literally and figuratively, either in words or action.

While the whole world sees a griefy widow, I think this couple experienced my heartbreak along with me. They just understand my need to breathe Starbucks air now and then, eat a Naturals ice cream, or just be dramatic whenever I choose to be. They see the gaping void in my life, which I try to fill with a mountain of work.

I am currently at a stage in my life where I am a chatty Preeti from Dil Se, all set to marry Amar, who is in love with a toxic, self-destructive, terrorist Meghna. But here is the catch: there is no Amar or Meghna in sight for me. I am happy to do the "Jiya Jale" dance on a boat all by myself, thank you very much—wet saree and all.

And before you ask, no, I still haven't figured out what "Munthiri muththoli chindhikko Vanjani varna chundhari vaavae Thaanginnakkath thakadhimiyaadum thanganilaavae hoi" stands for. I digress as always; if distraction had a face, I would be it. Blessed to have this wonderful couple in my life and all the giant bars of Toblerone they bring every year, along with sweet liquors and dates of exotic varieties.

Embracing the Cracks: The Art of Owning My Grief

I have been owning my grief since 2021, and I think I am pretty much killing it—especially the owning part. From Starbucks takeaway boxes to drink nights with friends and family, everything is a constant reminder of the life I once had.

I am my grief, and my grief is me. It is similar to the scene in The Avengers when Hulk confesses to Captain America seconds before stopping a giant flying monster with one punch: "That's my secret, Cap: I'm always angry." It is impossible to forget a habit of 13 years in just five. Time definitely heals—I can confirm this—but it does not make you forget.

I am cursed with the memory of an elephant (the kind found only in the deep rainforests of the Amazon, I presume) because I forget nothing. I still remember the scent and aroma of the food my grandmother fed me when I was four years old. Therefore, it is mission impossible for me to forget a life I spent 13 years trying to build.

Everything I am today—the multiple hair colour changes ranging from blue to purple to cherry purple, and the tattoos—is a reminder of the person I have become. I am still bright and sparkly on the outside, but more like a ceramic piece restored through Kintsugi (or Kintsukuroi). This centuries-old Japanese art form fixes broken pottery with a special lacquer dusted with powdered gold, silver, or platinum. Instead of hiding the cracks, this philosophy treats the breakage and repair as a beautiful part of the object's history. Please note: I am Hulk, and I am Kintsugi.

I am not sure how many humans openly admit to their flaws, but it is the first thing I do whenever I meet someone new. This is especially true if I like them and want to incorporate them into my life. It is best to lay out all the negatives first and observe whether they want to bolt and run or if they want to stay and uncover more dazzling bits of my personality—like my two-decade-old junk jewellery collection. 

The living are strange. They live as if they will live forever. I call the living "strange" because I have been both. I died the day my husband did, and I have taken multiple births since he passed, trying to make sense of the barrage of work disguised as school, office, and anything else that catches my fancy.

So yes, I have been owning my grief since 2021. I am probably killing it because I allow it to wash over me whenever it wants to, knowing the feeling will eventually pass on its own. That is the only way you can beat grief: you never truly can, so you simply have to accept it.

The Odyssey: A Cinematic Masterpiece That Hits Close to Home

You know what is worse than widowhood? Being a wife in waiting for two decades, similar to what Queen Penelope endured while waiting for Odysseus after the Trojan War. I could truly feel the lonely wife's pain, as well as the anxiety of her son, Telemachus, who yearns to know everything about a father he has never seen.

These characters connected deeply with me. I, too, am a wife without a husband. Unlike Penelope, however, I know he is never coming back. I also have a son who asks curious questions about a father he only vaguely remembers from when he was a two-year-old baby.

I could feel the pain of Odysseus as he tries his very best to save his crew from mythical monsters and angry gods, starting with the Lotus Eaters, the Sirens, and Scylla and Charybdis. After a decade of fighting at Troy, Odysseus faces another exhausting decade at sea, doing his best to get his crew home. He and his men anger the sea god, Poseidon, by blinding his son, the Cyclops Polyphemus. This enrages Poseidon, who ensures that Odysseus’s journey home is plagued with disasters.

The amount I missed my late grandfather as I watched this gorgeous Nolan wonder on-screen is hard to put into words. Had he been alive, I am pretty sure he would have looked me in the face, grunted, and said, "Rubbish. None of this exists."

From a queen's agony as she wonders if she is widowed and must remarry, to the anxiety of a son who wants to learn whether his father is alive, and finally to the husband who yearns to go back to his family while being stranded on Calypso’s island—where he is held by the nymph Calypso for seven years—I could feel all of their anxiety and pain for three hours.

The Odyssey is for anyone who is curious about Greek mythology, is a Nolan fan, or just wants to be enthralled by the wonder of larger-than-life storytelling. The Odyssey is an all-heart movie. Do not miss it.

The Saturday Morning Obstacle Course: Uncles, Kids, and Swimming Pool Chaos

There is nothing more dangerous than Indian uncles trying to unwind in a swimming pool, except perhaps little children. If you pit the two against each other, you will find yourself with a draw; no one wins, and everyone around both species loses.

The ones I bumped into this morning looked and sounded like frogs. They grunted and stared at me with annoyed, beady eyes each time I crossed their path, while the kids kept taking horizontal laps as I tried to swim vertical ones. The whole affair lasted for a full hour. By the end of the swim, I felt exhausted but happy, as if I had just finished a vigorous game of Minecraft or Super Mario—constantly maneuvering around objects appearing out of nowhere. Instead of dodging video game bombs, I was avoiding bubbly farts and the occasional patch of diluted pee, while the actual gamers were replaced by the chaotic crowd in the water.

Post-swim, my brother had to navigate unruly road traffic—specifically Gen Z "champions" slithering like snakes on their mopeds. I turned to him and confirmed that this was exactly what I had just experienced in the pool for the last hour. Indian swimming pools are often flooded with more uncles and kids than actual water; tackling them is a massive feat, especially first thing on a Saturday morning.

Shadows on the Slopes of Raheja Vihar

I still remember that first morning walk I took a week after my 35-year-old husband abruptly passed away on a busy Monday afternoon—December 6th, 2021, at 4:30 PM, to be exact. As I walked as a new widow up and down the winding slopes of Raheja Vihar, I felt unsafe and unprotected, as if a vital safety shield had been unceremoniously ripped away from my life. Walking briskly, I held myself firmly with both hands in a sort of self-hug, wondering what I would do with the rest of my life. I felt completely lost and alone. The pain in my chest felt like a boulder, and that boulder seemed to multiply every day.

I walked all around our apartment complex searching for my late husband. I went up to the terrace, stared at the sun, and remembered his last words to me: "There's no point living in Bombay if we don't live in a sea-facing apartment, Poopie. Let's move out from here in the next two years."

Five years have passed since he left, and honestly, whenever life throws googlies at me, I still feel like that 34-year-old new widow with a two-year-old, wondering what to do next. The dead definitely do not watch over you; I can say this with utter conviction because, other than the Amityville-like horror episodes I experienced in the first month of his passing, there has been complete silence. Death is final. There is no turning back or "moving on" from that.

What death did do for me was make me more emotionally intuitive and sensitive. Today, it is very easy for me to sniff out bullshit from people on both the personal and professional fronts. I can gauge a person's intentions through mere chatter or a single gaze. Honestly, I have reached a stage in my life where I only seek intensity—intensity in life and in work. If you are not 100% genuine with me, I will simply walk away because I really do not have the time. If a 35-year-old can drop dead on a Monday afternoon, so can I. So, do not waste my time or yours.

As for my late husband and my grief, they have changed me irrevocably. Some chord inside me has snapped violently, and there is no way I can go back to being that carefree, pre-grief girl. Two tattoos, multiple hair colour changes, and a moderate amount of sweet liquors and cocktails later, I can confirm: some days, the boulder inside my chest is very loud. All you can do is let it be loud until it decides to quieten down. In the meantime, accept everything and expect nothing from people, or from life.

The Day the Earth Spun Too Fast: A Mother’s Race Against Time

When a child vomits, the Earth turns once on its axis at a very high speed. My world turned this morning at exactly 7:45 AM—five minutes after he had eaten a good breakfast, twenty minutes before my trainer was scheduled to arrive, and with only an hour left before I had to log into work.

There was vomit everywhere. I practically broke down trying to clean it all up while racing against the clock. It was the race against time that truly got to me, even more than the freshly eaten breakfast I had handmade for him just five minutes before feeding him. More than a tsunami of vomit, there was a tsunami of panic in my head. Today was going to be miserably late and, in general, just miserable.

My attention was completely fragmented: half my mind was on my sick, puking child, half was at work, and the other half was consumed by unexpected school errands that had popped up randomly at 9:00 PM last night. I am tired just writing this.

Coming back to my recurring point—that women, especially women, simply cannot have it all—it couldn't be more apt than on a day like today. I need to be split into three separate parts today: one at work, one to worry about my sick child, and one to run school errands. How I will manage to finish it all remains to be seen. My impossible day starts now, and I am already late for work.

Sigh, and sigh.

The Sizzling Brownie: Owning the "Single Mom" Title

The little devil and I had to pay a visit to his paediatrician yesterday because he has been coughing his bum off and his skin was so burning hot, you could fry cheese nachos or French fries off it. So, Sir sat at home and created havoc everywhere—starting with my home, my parents, and the hospital.

There was a pimply teenage boy and a couple of little babies who were either highly entertained by him or wanted to wear earplugs. Each time a baby gooed or gaaed, he'd imitate their noise and say, "Awwww, what a cute little bean," "Poor little baby," and "Maaaamaaa, why is that baby crying?" When I would reply with a shrug or say, "No idea, Riaan," he would loudly announce to all and sundry in the hospital, "But maaamaaa, you're a single mom, you should know why babies cry! Now tell me why they are crying!"

Honestly, in that moment, I wished the earth would swallow me, similar to Sita being swallowed by the Earth when Ram wife-shamed her. From where had he picked up this term, "single mom"? Was it my book? Was it his YouTube Shorts? Was it chatter amongst his little friends? My soul pretty much stepped out of my body, and the rest of me wanted to run away as well, the more he called me a "single mum" louder than a loudspeaker.

As I write about this incident this morning, though, I realise: why should I be ashamed of being single and a mom? I've been both for a solid 5 years. Let me own it and simmer in that title like a hot piece of sizzling brownie inside decadent chocolate sauce. No vanilla ice cream required for me, please. This sizzling brownie has been sizzling for a while now. Brownie, out! Single moms, in!

The Heart of the Mothership

The mothership turns 71 today,

And I'm glad she laid out the way,

I turned out nothing like her, much to her dismay,

She's politically correct, come what may,

Not aggressively noisy,

Or too voraciously voicy,

Self-sacrificing and bearing the brunt of everyone's pain,

She truly has nothing to gain,

In feeding us and listening to us rant,

But that's a mother's love for you, something we take for granted and pretend we don't want,

I call her Mother India,

Because she goes out of her way for anyone she loves, like a swimmer in Olympia,

Thankful to be born of you,

Today I'm two,

And both our brains you've managed to decipher, occasionally feeling blue,

I'm sure you're wondering,

How you managed to create children and grandchildren whose minds are always wandering,

Perhaps the apple doesn't fall too far from the tree,

To have you as our mum and grandmum, our hearts are always filled with glee,

The mothership turns 71 today,

And I'm glad she laid out the way.

The Human Mixed Fried Rice: High Voltage, No Filter

My brain is constantly alternating between two modes: either I am in full Chaiya Chaiya mode, pretending to be a sexy Malaika Arora dancing enthusiastically on top of a moving train, or I am John Rzeznik, looking sexy as hell and belting out, "And I’d give up forever to touch you, / 'Cause I know that you feel me somehow. / You’re the closest to Heaven that I’ll ever be, / And I don’t wanna go home right now." This is not a brag; it truly is a childhood issue. I bring the drama to dramatic, the hurry to a hurricane, and the "Tsu" to a tsunami—you get the drift.

After 39 and a half years of self-introspection, I have realized that I am simply "too much." Thank God I still have friends who love me; my family just has to tolerate me, bless their souls. My mood changes quicker than a pendulum. I can go from happy to sad in under ten seconds flat, and back from sad to happy in under five. You could say my emotions are flaky. I just can’t make up my mind whether I want to be heartbroken or deliriously happy, count my blessings, or constantly crib that my back and knees hurt.

I am mixed fried rice with way too much mixed inside. When the waiter asks, "Chicken or prawns, sir?" and you reply, "Mix"—I am that mix. I am mixed fried rice, mixed noodles, and an American chopsuey with everything tossed in. What a strange personality indeed.

To quote every superhero movie’s cliché dialogue: "My abilities are a gift and a curse." In my case, my superpower is that I can read a room and a person like Superman using his X-ray vision, peering right down to your underwear. Whether you hate me, love me, dislike me, despise me, or try to brush me off, I catch it faster than The Flash. I am loud, chatty, giggly, and entirely in your face. Luckily, my friends understand. It is far too late in the day for me to change this high-voltage personality. So, wear your sunglasses or pop in some earplugs, because this chatterbox ain’t keeping quiet anytime soon.

Hyper bunny on sugar-free ice cream, out!

Dreaming of Doshas: A 3 AM Sleep Experiment

So last night, I tried something different to break my shitty sleep cycle. I kept my phone miles away from me, hoping for an undisturbed eight hours of sleep. But lo and behold, I woke up right along with the ghosts past midnight—at 3 AM sharp, just like I always do.

This kind of waking up is tricky: either you go back to sleep quickly, or you stay awake like a night owl staring into nothingness. Luckily, last night I did drift back to sleep. I ended up dreaming about masala doshas with my child, which was strange since we hadn't eaten or ordered them recently.

In the dream, we walked into a humble-looking South Indian breakfast restaurant with steel tables and simple sofas. We waited for someone to take our order. Finally, we decided to walk around to find a waiter to place our masala dosha order. As I kept thinking about that dosa, I wondered who was actually going to eat it; Riaan loves puris, and I am off carbs. Yet, for some reason, the masala dosha was stuck in my head.

When we turned around to look back at our table, we discovered to our shock that it was occupied by five or six potbellied uncles. Luckily for us, we suddenly spotted my mum at another table. As I looked at her face in the distance and wondered why on earth I wanted to eat a masala dosha, I woke up again.

This time it was 5:30 AM. Phone or no phone, my sleep is definitely still disturbed. But looking on the bright side, without my mobile phone, I suppose the time taken to drift back to sleep was quicker. And masala dosha dreams, however perplexing, are never a bad thing to have.

Not-so-tired owl, out!

The Uninvited Intruder

Migraine attacks,

Sneak in like an uninvited rat,

Loud, screechy, hammering,

The pain has me clamouring.

I bury my head in pain,

Lying in the farthest corners of my bed, forlorn. 

With migraine attacks,

There are no hacks,

Except to wait for it to pass,

Like an intruder who wants to trespass.

A migraine is a full mind and body experience;

It has you feeling delirious,

A complete lack of control over your senses,

And even your best defences,

Can't keep it out,

All you can do is wait it out,

Migraine attacks,

Sneak in like an uninvited rat.

My Backup Squad: Celebrating Three Special Birthdays

The upcoming week is filled with the birthdays of three of my favorite people—my mother, Riaan's best friend Agu, and my dear friend and colleague of more than a decade, Shina.

All three of them are Cancerians, meaning they are highly empathetic and deeply sensitive. It is a good mix because they keep my son and me in check. I dump my emotional load on both of these ladies like nobody's business, and they solve it for me in under ten seconds—either with a kind word or a pair of their lovely slippers. The message gets delivered effectively, and I quickly move on with my life until the next problem pops up.Moving on to Agu: he is Riaan's everyday protector and guardian angel. He reports all of Riaan's daily misdemeanors to his mom, Devyani, who promptly reports them all to me.

Consequently, my post-school days are filled with either reprimanding Riaan, appreciating him, or feeling sorry for him, depending on the situation he has gotten himself into.They all have sparkling personalities. To quote Shina, when I mentioned, "What a wonderful, crabby person you are—I meant the star sign, not your personality," she quickly corrected me, saying, "We are all crabby, but still nice, even personality-wise." I quickly nodded along and wisely steered the conversation in another direction.

What would Riaan and I do without this strong trio in our lives? Read more about them and how they have significantly influenced my life in my brand-new book, "The Story of One Single Mom and Her Backup Squad," where they make prominent appearances in the prologue, poetry, and essay sections.

The links to purchase my book for Indian and international readers are available below:

For Readers in India:

Amazon India: https://amzn.in/d/075flTXm

Notion Press: https://notionpress.com/in/read/the-story-of-one-single-mom-and-her-backup-squad

Flipkart: https://www.flipkart.com/story-one-single-mom-her-backupsquad/p/itm748b32e22b9fb

For International Readers:

Amazon US: https://a.co/d/0bVbTKVs

Amazon UK: https://amzn.eu/d/0c38jlyf

The Dentist's Chair Nightmare

I have more cement than teeth in my mouth now,

Before I could even ask how,

The job was already done,

And it was far from fun,

One excruciating hour of drilling, polishing, and cleaning,

I found myself puffing, panting, and leaning,

I collapsed into a chair,

And gasped for huge breaths of air, 

I crawled back home,

My mumma's home,

Ate two tubs of ice cream,

And decided to forget it all like a bad dream,

Protect your teeth with all your might,

Lest you undergo my plight, 

Ice cream and sleep,

That's all I want for tonight, while I try not to weep.

The Legend of Swaroop Chettan: My Brother, My Superman

For the umpteenth time, I am writing about my main source of inspiration: my family. This piece is about my big brother, Swaroop Mohanlal—the man who made me fall in love with superhero movies, thanks to his extensive collection of graphic novels when we were kids. We have an eight-year age gap, and he has fully taken advantage of that situation!

Family weddings have always been so much fun with Swaroop chettan and the rest of our large family. Growing up, Swaroop chettan and Arjun chettan were the main conspirators in ruining the "first nights" of many newlywed couples in our family. Once, as a seven-year-old, I was told to hide under my uncle and aunt's bed on their wedding night. Of course, they caught me and threw me out in an instant, thanks to all the giggling coming from under their feet! 

Another time, these boys hid alarm clocks set to go off at various hours of the night just to wake a newly married couple from their deep slumber. We even stood outside bedrooms with firecrackers and matchsticks, eavesdropping on conversations and reporting back to each other.

So naturally, when I got married and couldn't spend my first night in my own house, I was super disappointed. For the first time, I was away from my naughty brothers and my family. I cried buckets of tears on my wedding day—and for a whole week leading up to it.

Both of my brothers are absolute legends. They are smart, funny, and incredibly sharp with their work. Because of them, it is only natural that I grew up to be an amazing human (cue the applause, please—thank you, thank you!).

Unfortunately, we couldn't all meet up as a giant family this year for various reasons. Therefore, I sent him a little reminder of how important he is in my life: a custom Superman and Superwoman sibling memento. I wanted him to carry those wonderful childhood memories back to the U.S. with his adorable children.

Swaroop chetta, you are one of the Supermen in my life. Thank you for your words of encouragement, and even for your harsh criticisms of my writing, which have improved my craft tremendously over the years. I don't think a single article or blog post is enough to cover the ocean of love and affection I feel for you, your beautiful wife, and your gorgeous children. 

You are an extension of me, and I am an extension of you. We are bonded forever by the late Captain P. Thyagarajan (the greatest sailor of all time) and the late Mrs. Indira Thyagarajan (the best ammumma any child could ever have grown up with).

Rest Is for the Dead: Own Your Quirks and Live out Loud

You can never be too much for the right person or the right set of people. Take this from someone who is "too much" all the time. I am often told I am like an Energizer Bunny on steroids—but no, sugar is the real key to my happiness. That, plus sugar-free ice cream and the occasional tiramisu, cheesecake, gajar ka halwa, and moong dal halwa.

Be too much at all times. Talk, laugh, and put forth your point of view respectfully. Just be too much! Being sober and calm is for when you are dead—which, practically speaking, is right around the corner.

Be remembered for everything that you are. Honestly, you don’t even have to try that hard. Be kind, listen intently, and answer with empathy. It is really not that difficult.

Definitely avoid gossipmongers and people with no ambition. My hobbies have hobbies, and my job has another job; stay super busy and occupied at all times. Once again, rest is for the dead. You are not dead yet.

If my life had a soundtrack, it would be loud, warm, in-your-face, genuine, and all heart. Any fear I ever had died the day my husband did. I am a completely different person now. I have the wisdom of Chandra from Lokah, the strength of Selene from Underworld, and the political incorrectness of Deadpool.

Mind you, I was always this person. It just got heightened by the confidence of raising a child single-handedly—with the support of my very able backup squad, of course—alongside juggling my professional responsibilities.

Be unapologetic, own all your quirks, and head into the world with utter confidence. You don’t have to fake it till you make it. You have already made it. Just keep putting one foot in front of the other, and you are good to go for the rest of your life.

Over-Enthusiastic Cutlet: A 39-and-a-Half-Year-Old’s Guide to Lifting and Defeat

I experienced lifting fatigue today. I've been going crazy with weights for the past couple of weeks and decided to push myself up a notch on Tuesday. My "old lady bones" protested—and how! Shoulder blade pain, neck pain, back pain, and parts of my body that ideally shouldn't hurt began to ache.

This is what happens when you are over-enthusiastic in life. If enthusiasm were a cutlet, I'd be a giant one, deep-fried many times over. The lesson I learned over the past three days: never take your body for granted.

You can push yourself only up to a point. Beyond that point, remember you're not Hercules, He-Man, or whichever hulky "He's" exist in the world (ooh, Hulk! I just remembered him because I wrote "hulky"). 

As I was saying: breathe, marvel at what you can do, but pushing on a day when you've already pushed yourself is probably not the greatest idea. Today, I didn't even look at my higher weights. I just stuck to the humble 2 kilos in both hands and accepted both the pain and the defeat.

At the end of my workout, my trainer lectured me for 15 solid minutes on the evils of eating Rajaram's Butter Murukku every evening to satiate my soul. I looked at her the way Skeletor would look at Evil-Lyn. She was my Evil-Lyn in that moment, and this Skeletor wasn't laughing—no, I was huffing and panting instead.

At 39 and a half years old, a mother to a 7 and a half year old, and definitely perimenopausal, perhaps I shouldn't behave like a 21-year-old when it comes to my workouts. To quote Barnabas Collins—the 200-year-old vampire played by Johnny Depp in Dark Shadows: "You must put those birthing hips to good use at once... lest your womb shrivel up and die." And, "She has the most fertile birthing hips I have ever laid eyes upon."

So yes, my hips have been put to use, and my womb is probably shrivelled up and dead.

Keeping all these very accurate facts in mind, it's time to behave less like all the aforementioned "He's" and start acting like a very, very tired "she."

And that brings an end to my bodily rants. Over-enthusiastic cutlet, out!