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!

Ho-Ho-Ho and Dry Eyes Go

Eyes so scratchy and dry,

Even my tears can't undo this, if I cry,

In my head, I am sixteen,

But my eyes say I am closer to sixty,

"It is perfectly normal,"

Said my ophthalmologist, with an explanation so phenomenal,

So I am going to take it,

As a life well-lived, almost a super-hit,

I say "almost" because I am not sixty yet,

I still have a couple of decades in me, I bet,

Staring at screens during work and play,

Has finally led to this day,

It is okay, it is alright,

I don't see this as a plight,

Eye drops are the way we go,

And we continue to sing, "Ho-ho-ho!"

Eyes so scratchy and dry,

Even my tears can't undo this, if I cry. 

In a Fragile World, Choose Friendship (And a Good Mid-Week Read!)

There is a lot to learn from childhood friendships, and my biggest living example is my son and his best friend, Agu. Whatever the season, whichever the class, and irrespective of teacher changes or the addition of new friends, Riaan has never let Agu slip away. Their love for one another is unconditional. They stand up for each other, fight for and against each other, love each other, and are deeply loyal to their friendship. Not one bad word can be uttered in front of Riaan about Agu, or in front of Agu about Riaan. There is no room for parents to scold either of these children in front of the other without being called "evil" and "bad."

Life is full of changes, but having that one person to hold onto for the rest of your life is everything. There are massive lessons of loyalty, friendship, and love that we can learn from these boys. I hope their friendship never ends, and that they grow up to talk about future heartbreaks, marriages, jobs, and everything in between. I hope they always remain each other's safe space and sounding board. In a world filled with uncertainty and fragility, choose to be like Agu and Riaan.

On that note, my new book, "The Story of One Single Mom and Her Backup Squad," features a poem about Riaan and Agasthya's four-year-long friendship. Do pick it up and read it if you are a parent, a boy mom, or if you just want a mid-week laugh!

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

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

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

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

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

Keeping Arkham at Bay: The High Stakes of Emotional Regulation

It is so important to be emotionally regulated at all times. The demons inside your head must remain only in your head. Contain them and make them battle it out with each other until they see sense, so that you do not blurt out utter rubbish to friends and family.

It is amazing how much mental clarity I have now, after spewing hormonal period rage at everyone for a week. It was not one of my finest moments, and even chocolate did not help. It was pain-induced anger—anger that showed its face because I lost control of my body. But that was my emotionally dysregulated moment for the month, and I have no excuses. I was like the little green devil from the Onida TV advertisement, only more red than green because I was snappy and far less cheerful than that little demon.

Emotional regulation is the only way you can move forward in peace with society at large. That garish thought of dumping someone inside a lava-filled mountain should only remain within the confines of your brain. Ideally, all your thoughts should remain inside your brain, unless you want to be thrown into Arkham Asylum like the Joker. And remember, there may be no sexy Harley Quinn to fall in love with you while treating you. No, those lovely things only happen in the movies. On that note, I wish I could recreate that "falling into the vat" scene straight into the Joker's hands. Sigh! I digress.

Going back to emotional regulation now: be regulated, boys and girls, at all times. It is the sane and mature thing to do. Take this advice from someone who has mostly remained insane and done only nutty things in life, such as eating five boxes of Cadbury's Nutties in one sitting. 

Okay, let me stop clowning around now. Stay emotionally regulated. Stat!

My Drama, But Worse

Tiny tongues worse than blades,

Then the adage rings true: call a spade a spade.

It's your tongue,

Placed in your little one, who swings verbal cow-dung.

A temper worse than yours,

Ready to slam doors.

You've created a mini-you,

And you understand him through and through.

Your drama, but worse,

Your overthinking, but in tumbling verse.

What have you created?

This was the bean for whom you waited,

Almost an eternity for,

But now he just wants to stare at you and roar.

Tiny tongues worse than blades,

Then the adage rings true: call a spade a spade.

Out of Office (In My Mind)

It's Monday morning,

Not sure about you, but my brain is hemorrhaging.

New tasks, fresh targets,

My mind is already on a different orbit.

Week one will definitely be crazy,

There is absolutely no time to be lazy.

Although my mind is already in Bali,

All set for a sunny beach rally,

Sipping on tropical Mai Thais,

Underneath those clear blue skies.

Ready to snore loudly and sleep,

While my brain at present still weeps.

Yes, that's a dream for another day,

Working for a future that leads that way.

But for now, it's still Monday morning,

Not sure about you, but my brain is hemorrhaging.

The Tiramisu Philosophy: Finding Peace in a World of Expectations

Releasing the weight of expectations and simply accepting things as they are—starting with people, food, and situations—can save you a lot of heartburn. Simply live in the moment. If it is meant to be, it will be; otherwise, allow it to fade away like a beautiful memory. Once again, this is applicable to people, food, and situations.

It took me exactly three years, give or take, for this wisdom to dawn on me. I realized that self-peace and contentment from the inside are the only things that can propel you forward every day.

Be the jiggly, comforting Tiramisu that you are, with the occasional crunchy ladyfinger. The right audience will subscribe to your crazy brain juice and stay. The rest will automatically filter themselves out, for Tiramisu is not for everyone—especially not for weight watchers and people with diabetes. 

You are a well-appreciated bowl or jar of Tiramisu to some people. Stick to those people and, as always, do not chase. Remain steady and calm, and top your bowl with an occasional flash of espresso.

Tiramisu, out! 

When the Grief is Griefing and the Gaajar Halwa Rules

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

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

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

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

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

A Cinematic Space Odyssey with Heart

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Our options are down to three choices:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Heartbreak and Healing of Female Friendships

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Polycystic Nightmare: When the Soul Wants to Quit

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Refreshing, Raw, and Rewarding Evolution of Supergirl

As someone who grew up on a steady diet of the traditional, "goody-two-shoes" Superman—spanning from Christopher Reeve and Henry Cavill to the current actor Tyler Hoechlin—it was incredibly jarring to see a young, twenty-something Supergirl. 

In the first half of the movie, she is constantly drunk and running wild from one planet to the next with her unruly dog. Everything about her, from her unkempt hair to her drunken fighting style, felt completely wrong. I found myself wondering, Where am I? What am I watching? Who is this young girl tarnishing the glorious, hard-earned reputation of Kal-El?

However, the story truly picks up during a flashback that explores her grief. We see how heartbroken she was as a child, watching her home planet of Krypton explode and witnessing her parents slowly die right in front of her. 

This harsh upbringing explains exactly why Kara is the way she is. She is lost, lonely, and struggles to understand Superman's optimistic spirit or, as she puts it in the movie, "his young heart."

Without giving away too many spoilers, I will just say that your heart will eventually go out to Supergirl. You will witness her come into her own and emerge as a superhero just as wonderful as her cousin. She ultimately stands up for the weak and conquers evil. 

You will walk out of the theater feeling inspired and motivated to keep pushing forward in real life, just as Kara did—even if she does promise to quit her pub crawls and truly take ownership of her superpowers. This is definitely a great watch for Superman fans. Do not miss it on the big screen!

From T-Rex Wrath to Parenting Wins: A Lesson in Accountability

My period coincided with the Ambubachi Mela of Maa Kamakhya this month, according to my friend Preethi on Instagram. She shared reels with me about the festival and told me how to ease the pain spiritually and through my diet. I nodded along to everything she said, but the reality of managing a hyperactive child at home alongside a demanding corporate career is that I rarely have time to look at my own face from Monday to Friday.

Consequently, last evening, I completely snapped at my seven-year-old because he spelled scale as "skale" and pizza as "petsa." I lost my temper beyond recognition and quickly turned into a T-Rex. Seeing him shiver inside his sleeveless "I'm a trouble maker" tank top immediately made me feel guilty. Once the study session was over, I hugged him and explained that I was on my period—something all women go through month after month—and that my stomach was hurting badly. I explained that I snapped because I was mentally exhausted from work and physically drained on day four of my cycle. As I hugged him, he smiled and looked up at me with his googly eyes. I assured him that I was a bad mamma in that moment and that he should never have experienced my "period wrath."

I took ownership of my hormone-induced rage and laid out my flaws in front of him. The reason I explain every T-Rex moment to my son is so that when he loses his temper someday with his friends, family, or especially his own children, he will know how to rectify the situation quickly and restore normalcy. You are welcome, future daughter-in-law—whether you are currently in diapers, floating inside a womb, or still just an idea in outer space!

Talking endlessly with him is how I hope to raise him into a good human being who takes accountability and admits his wrongdoings. Oops! No wonder the child is a chatterbox. That is all, folks! That is my parenting 101 guide for the day for you to either follow or disagree with. After all, every monkey has their own ringmaster and circus—our kids being the monkeys in this instance, of course.

Grief, Ice Cream, and the Myth of Being "Too Young"

Yet another 3 AM wake-up today with clear glimpses of a past life: me entering Galleria Mall in Powai with my then-living husband, stuffing our faces with ice cream at Apsara. I remember taking a sneaky selfie of us chomping down our ice cream like animals. I jerked out of my slumber at that point and wondered what this dream, or rather this reminiscence of a past life, meant.

Perhaps it meant that ice cream is forever—with or without a marriage or a husband. I must continue eating ice cream and finding joy in the little things. Life goes on, and ice cream melts fast. It is better to act quickly in both life and while eating ice cream.

Five years later, I still have complete strangers look me in the face, gasp, and say, "You're too young to be widowed." What is the concept of young or old when tragedy strikes? Who even has control over such things? It is absolutely ridiculous to look someone in the eye and say something like that.

Once again, the adage "think before you speak" comes to mind. Do not just say whatever you want to someone who has lost a significant other. It is not only foolish but also extremely insensitive. If you do not have anything constructive to say, say nothing at all, mind your own business, and keep moving.

Move Over, Karan Johar: Why My Family Beats Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham

A moment of appreciation for my sisters—by marriage and by blood. They get me like no one else in the world. One good, incoherent cry session with my cousin or my sister-in-law from Dubai, where I am sobbing hysterically more than talking, is enough to revive me back to my superhero self. Even as I cry as loudly as my son and gush out incoherent mumbo jumbo, they hear everything loud and crystal clear.

My favourite food? Cooked and ready for me before I even reach their houses. The coloured kajals I love to wear, along with some junk jewellery? Already set aside and waiting for me when I visit. Superhero bobbleheads? Picked up only after a video call to confirm exactly which one I want. I am truly blessed to have this trio: two by marriage and one by birth.

Both of my brothers—my cousin and my own—absolutely hate my guts when I declare to their faces that their wives are the better versions of them. Of course, I am kidding when I say this. While their better halves understand my soul, my brothers understand the madness in my soul and why it works the way it does. All of these couples complement each other like Yin and Yang. Lucky for me, I am loved by everyone without any bias. Obviously, this overflowing love spills over to my already spoiled brat of a son as well.

When we all meet once a year, the joy that fills my heart cannot be put into words. We are a multigenerational, food-loving, loud, opinionated, screechy, and super-affectionate family. We may or may not bite, depending on the conversation you choose to have with us. I love this family—men, women, children, animals, and everything in between. Well, there goes another article into the world about loving your family. I could put Karan Johar to shame now; Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham is simply no match for us.

The Myth of the Period Goddess vs. My Reality

I have been watching reels and beautiful stories about how periods are celebrated in Indian temples, how anger is actually a feminine power tied to the goddess Kali, and how menstruating means a woman is at her strongest. While that sounds absolutely wonderful on paper, periods have done nothing but suck the wind out of my system ever since I first got them at nearly ten years old.

My symptoms grew progressively worse over the years until I was finally diagnosed with PCOD a year after I got married. The condition was discovered only after a bout of severe back pain left me completely bedridden for a week. That was when ultrasound scans revealed cysts on both of my ovaries that looked as massive as the globe does from outer space.

As a newly married woman, the nurses and lab technicians were horrified by my scans. They kept bluntly asking if I had a child yet, telling me that if I didn't, it was high time I thought about making one. Needless to say, I had a very difficult time conceiving, followed by an even bumpier pregnancy.

Of course, the bright side of that grueling journey is raising my cheeky little son. He constantly shakes his bum at me and asks for another "beating" on his backside, hilariously insisting it is a "relaxing massage" rather than a punishment.

However, returning to my PCOD, I hardly feel like a goddess or at my strongest. On the contrary, it feels like a volcanic eruption is tearing through my entire abdomen. The only thing that puts the fire out is consuming two to three kilos of chocolate ice cream, chocolate sauce, and chocolate cakes.

All the Dronis 30 pills and hot water bags in the world cannot extinguish this pain. I am forced to lie in bed all day, either sleeping or staring up at the ceiling fan. I end up having incoherent conversations with it, much like a drunk three-month-old baby who has just breastfed and is about to knock off to sleep. There are definitely no goddess feelings here—just my PCOD kicking me hard, month after month, for the past two decades.

From Barbies to Deliverables: The Subliminal Genius of the Toy Industry

There is a reason why little girls were given doll sets to play with, along with houses for those dolls to live in. The truth is, women are fantastic when it comes to decorating their homes and looking after their real-life "dollies"—their kids. As I impulsively buy yet another Minecraft T-shirt and matching co-ord set for my son, along with watches and curios for the house, I find myself going back in time. I see my four-year-old self playing with Barbie dolls, organizing their cupboards, and doing their hair, makeup, and clothes.

Zoom out to the present day, and that is exactly what I am doing with my 7.5-year-old. I dress him up like a sparkly little kuttappan day in and day out, while impulsively filling my house with shiny, bright things. It all makes so much sense 39 years later.

Going by this logic, perhaps little boys play with cars and action figures because they must learn to navigate life expertly—both with and without Google Maps—on the road, in their offices, and at home. The action figures probably represent the need to take charge, be accountable, and take responsibility for all the "dead bodies" they line up. In this day and age, "dead bodies" likely translate to deliverables at the office and commitments to their partners and families.

The toy industry is genius when you think about it. For centuries, they have been subliminally passing down the message that women are nurturers, caregivers, and life-bringers, while men must take charge, lead the way, and bring clarity to every situation—both at home and at work.

And that is my Eureka moment for the day, ladies and gentlemen. Back to work now, chop-chop!

From Tsunamis to Calm Oceans: Tales of a Boy Mom

Contrary to popular belief, little boys are in fact as sensitive as, if not more sensitive than, little girls. Mine had a full meltdown yesterday after an entire day out with his bestie. As I was giving him a piece of my mind for opening his floodgates after spending more than half a day with his favourite tiny human, I could see his bestie's face falling as well. In that moment, I perhaps looked like Cruella de Vil to the kids—the Emma Stone version, to be exact.

As I let the tornado in my mind unleash on him and watched his tear-soaked face, the mom guilt kicked in hard. But what kicked even harder was the fact that this mini-man I created was as stubborn and pig-headed as me. 

He is so set in his ways he would put a freshly tarred road to shame. At 48 inches tall, his opinions and loyalty toward his bestie are massive. His bestie's feelings are exactly the same.

As we watched them wreak havoc from one room to the next, my mom friend and I questioned each other: "Which world have we entered?", "Do you think people will curse us?", "Oh my god, I don't see them, they're definitely going to be kidnapped now," and "I can't hear my own thoughts with all their chatter, can you?" 

Our sweet little angels are so wonderful to watch from a distance but a total disaster up close. But they are our disasters, and we will not rest until we turn them into calm, mighty oceans from the tsunamis they currently are.

Beneath the Smile: The Fire of Puss in Boots and Bubbles

I suppose half my life and perhaps less than half my career is done and dusted, which gives me knowledge. It is the knowledge to sniff out bullshit and pettiness, such as jealousy, attention-seeking, and other useless emotions. Of course, it took me a lot of time to see through people and understand their ways because I am a positive person in every situation—whether dealing with life or death. I simply move on and eventually smile about it.

Therefore, considering I am Bubbles from the Powerpuff Girls in real life, villains are few and far between in my head. Similar to Bubbles, I am known for bringing joy, laughter, and insanity to my friends, family, and colleagues. However, also like Bubbles, I have an intense temper when provoked. If you annoy me in any way—be it through speech or action—I positively will punch your nose out and hand it to you in a bag to fix at the hospital.

I can no longer stand micromanagement, unnecessary commentary, suggestions, and opinions from all and sundry. I hand it right back to them like MJ’s "Smooth Criminal." You could also say I am Puss in Boots. I disarm "enemies" with my trademark "cute face" (wide eyes and dilated pupils), only to fiercely fight them the moment they drop their guard. Therefore, never judge a book by its cover. I am the book and the cover here, and I will bite.

So, keep your distance unless you are a very close friend, an acquaintance, or a family member who has managed to sneak your way into my heart. For everyone else, I am Puss in Boots and Bubbles from the Powerpuff Girls. On that note, in the words of Bubbles, "I'm hardcore," and to quote Puss, "Fear me if you dare!"

Catwoman and the Porcelain Reality Check

I picked up a console table and a sweet, bespectacled-looking bunny to keep on top of it over the weekend. As I was staring at the face of the cute porcelain wonder and explaining to my mother with great enthusiasm how I’d convert the console table into an Alice in Wonderland theme, along came my child. He stared at the bespectacled face of the rabbit for ten seconds, looked at my face for the next five, and announced instantly, "Oh look, a bunny that looks like my maaamaa!"

Hearing that proclamation from him shattered the porcelain glass windows of my heart, which I had painted in multicolours. The beautiful illusion of youth I lived in was destroyed by my own 7.5-year-old creation. He walked straight back to his toys and screen after making this declaration, completely unbothered that my world had just ended. I sniffed and let it pass.

Meanwhile, my much-hyped prescription reading glasses finally got delivered yesterday afternoon. Suddenly, my headaches vanished as I stared at my laptop and mobile screens. I decided to video call my mother with the glasses on in the middle of work. One look at my face and she chuckled loudly, saying, "Aiiyyeeee, Teacher Gayatri!" I stopped working, stared at her laughing digital face, and blinked. Sigh! Approaching 40 is really biting me hard on my backside, front side, and especially on all sides of my face.

In other news, someone else mentioned that they look like "Catwoman" glasses when I shared a picture. So, I'm going to go with that. I'm not old; I'm Catwoman. Meow!

Now, let me ride into the sunset with my Catwoman glasses and conquer yet another day of work. The weekend is almost here, along with my Zepto order containing a ₹600 bar of Fabelle's dark kunafa chocolate. Let me munch on some now and continue being sprightly! Good day to you all, and happy almost weekend! Keep being sprightly, with or without reading glasses. Meow meow!

Once a Hanmerite, Always a Hanmerite: A Tribute to My First PR Family

Hanmer MSL, aka MSL India. How do I even begin putting into words what this place meant to me?

It was my first PR job and an organisation that understood my madness, encouraging me to be my unique self—broken screws in the head and all. I laughed, I cried, I ate, and occasionally, I secured media coverage for my clients and did media rounds. But mostly, working at Hanmer MSL felt like a home away from home. I found sisterhood, friendship, inspiring leaders, and interesting clients who pushed me to channel my creative energy into something productive. They taught me that there has to be some method to the madness. Every boss after my Hanmer MSL stint has called me meticulous and hardworking, and perhaps I owe Hanmer all the credit for that.

This company made me who I am today: crazy in the head, but sharp with my work. Perhaps I oversell myself now, but that is unfortunately a PR trait! After 16 years in the industry, I suppose I have learnt to position my personal brand better as well. Yet, deep down, I am still that overeating young Management Trainee hired by Beerendra Sir back in 2012, just with 16 years of experience now.

Afternoons at Hanmer MSL were spent playing on the office lawn. I say "home" because our office was inside a cozy house. Whenever there was a power cut, we would all head out to the lawn to play badminton, take pictures, or just chit-chat. Work and play went hand in hand, which is why the Hanmer MSL class of our era did so well later in their professional careers. We were taught to take everything with a pinch of salt and to smile through every crisis.

Senthamil Sir’s warm smile and sensational pitch presentations—where he completely owned the room and won over potential clients—motivated us to keep going. Vijay Sir was quiet, but when he did speak, you remembered every word with precision, like a crystal-clear glass bowl. Beerendra Sir was my biggest cheerleader and supporter; he pushed me to excel and trusted me with client after client, no questions asked.

Thank you, my dearest Hanmer MSL crew. How can I ever forget the organisation and the people who made me who I am? You are not just my former colleagues; you are family. My heart is always open to you, and there is a special corner where you all permanently reside. 

Once a Hanmerite, always a Hanmerite.

A Miniature Mass Hero is Born

My not-so-tiny baby decided to be a mass entertainer yesterday, following in the footsteps of Thala, Thalapathy, and Thalaivar. It started just as he was walking out of the door for school, right after creating his usual havoc at home. I looked at him and said, "Take your naughtiness elsewhere. You have no idea how nasty I was as a child."

To this, he turned around, scrunched up his eyebrows, and looked like a cross between the Chucky doll and the evil kid from The Omen and instantly replied, "I know, Maamaa. I can tell by your face that you were much more evil than me as a child." Before I could catch my breath and process his words, he ran down the stairs like an evil baby ghost, humming a strange tune. 

The next set of incidents happened at the eye hospital. I had to visit yesterday evening because I have been having difficulty reading lately, along with a splitting migraine. This was where my child really upped his game. From the nurses and the doctor to the fish swimming in the tank, he had everyone in his pocket with his constant chatter. All I could hear was the loud chuckling of various women across age groups, with my child right at the centre of it all.

Occasionally, he would walk over to kiss me and pet me on the head as if I were his pet hamster or puppy. He would whisper, "Are you okay, Maamaa? Do your dilated eyes hurt?"

Of course, the sweetness vanished when he called me "an old 50-year-old hag" while I tried on various frames. I was trying to place an order for my very first pair of prescription glasses. Cue the sound of my heart breaking so loudly that it could cause either a nationwide earthquake or a tsunami.

After 39 years and 5 months, I was finally going to wear glasses. Sigh! My body is slowly and steadily giving up on me. To wash this tragic feeling down, I made my mother buy me Sambar Vada and filter coffee at Vishranthi in Besant Nagar.

I felt much better as I ate my food. However, I felt even better finishing my son's poori and aloo with coconut chutney. Slurp! Thank God for good food—the instant saviour of life's various disappointments.

Beyond Porotta and Chicken Fry: A Culinary Journey Back to my Ammumma’s Kitchen

As a Malayalee settled in Chennai for close to three decades, I constantly miss the food from my late grandmother's kitchen. I long for the mild, coconut milk-infused fish gravies, the appams, porottas, pappadams, puttu, kadala curry, and parippu. I searched long and hard for authentic Malayalee food in Chennai, and Kappa Chakka Kandhari finally answered all my cravings.

One bite of their appam with fish moilee, and I was transported right back to my ammumma's house in Trivandrum. I felt like a fat five-year-old child again, greedily gulping down food at her dining table morning, noon, and night. It almost felt as though Ammumma were sitting right there, watching me eat with her serene smile. There were definitely tears of joy in my eyes, but I was too busy feeding both myself and my child to wipe them away.

The restaurant offers unique starters, main courses, and desserts, such as the Jackfruit Cutlet, Kandhari ice cream, and fried Pathiri. I was educated on the sheer variety of our cuisine right there at the table by both our enthusiastic, chatty waitress and my mother. I had no idea Malayalee food was so vast. There is a whole world outside of Kerala porotta and Naadan Chicken Fry, and I am only too happy to keep exploring it.

By the time we ended our meal with our ice cream desserts, the friendly waitress brought our bill. I greedily asked her to pack two portions of palada payasam. She chuckled and quickly obliged, updating our bill with the added items.

I went home with a nostalgia-filled heart and a very happy tummy. After a beautiful afternoon siesta, I woke up and drank 450ml of the palada payasam. I did give 50ml to my mum, though. Of course I share food—I'm not an animal!

If you are a Malayalee like me searching for an authentic, home-cooked meal, do head to Kappa Chakka Kandhari in Bangalore or Chennai. You will not be disappointed.

Juggling Act: Why Filling My Own Cup Makes Me a Better Mother

I was having a conversation with my mum yesterday morning about why she chose to stop writing. She writes beautifully—much better than me—and her articles have been published now and then in Army magazines. "So why didn't you pursue this hobby, Ma?" I asked. To which she replied with a shrug. She chose not to be a doctor to grow her family, and she chose not to continue her teaching career because it was hard for her to settle down in one city, all thanks to Daddy's Army career.

That generation has sacrificed and sacrificed. She lets my son and me watch TV the minute we are in her house, and she lets me eat the last scoop of chocolate ice cream, even though she is fond of it. I wonder how they did it, because I can't even share a cookie with my son. I get three cookies—two for him and one for me—each time I place a Zomato order. Our food fights turn ugly when he pokes his spoon and face into my share of food. My mother, on the other hand, magnanimously doles out all the food on her plate. He promptly butters her up and says, "This is why I love my Egg more than you, Mum. She always shares her food with me. She's not selfish like you," he says, with food smeared all over his face and chest.

I'm okay with being selfish, because in that selfishness, I find happiness. And a happy mother leads to a happy child. I will never stop pursuing my hobbies, career, and anything else that catches my fancy just because I have a child. I believe that a child who sees his mother or father going out into the world and living out their dreams will hopefully do the same.

Make no mistake when I say this: I have no disrespect for that entire generation of self-sacrificing women, and perhaps there are still some left in my generation. But I will never suffocate myself and stop being who I am simply because I have the responsibilities of being a mother. I am capable of juggling both and will continue to do so. If that means I sleep in a little late over the weekends while my son spends time with his grandparents, so be it. A well-rested mother can deliver a happy weekend to her child. To juggle our passions along with the responsibilities of parenthood is the only way a family can truly be a satisfied and happy unit.

Sunday Vibes: High Energy, Low Sleep, and Blueberry Cheesecake

You know you're an old, perimenopausal hag when you wake up on a Sunday morning by 1:45 AM and can't go back to sleep. This happened because I napped in the afternoon and I'm over-excited about my morning swim. Also, in general, I have zero chill in life.

Why take drugs when you can have me as your friend? My brain is always buzzing, and I'll get you high on my thoughts too. You're welcome! All friendships across ages, genders, and communities are welcome—as long as you are a kind person who feeds me blueberry cheesecake now and then. Thank you.

My perimenopausal brain is hard at work, and I'm just going to own it. Zero cribbing today because it's Sunday! I get to sniff my son's armpits all day and have his toy cars run all over my face and hair. What joy! 

Onwards and upwards to my sleep-deprived Sunday. What kind of Sunday are you having today? Want to catch up for black coffee followed by a huge slice of cheesecake?

Suriya’s Epic Return: The Ultimate Masala Entertainer

A beautiful masala movie directed by RJ Balaji, starring the one and only Suriya. He was every college-going girl's heartthrob at one point. My earliest memory of Suriya is in Kaakha Kaakha, where he plays a daring policeman. 

I remember watching that movie at Mayajaal late at night with my brother and mom. As we munched on bread omelettes outside the IIT Madras campus at midnight, all I could think about was Suriya. 

Years later, I saw him at my college, standing in an atrium with thousands of teenage girls looking at him and screaming their guts out. I was the loudest teenage girl in that group!

What a wholesome mass entertainer with Suriya at the helm after ages. I absolutely loved it. It made me want to dance, travel to Madurai to learn the history of local deities, and it made me want to become a lawyer all over again. 

I highly recommend this movie to Suriya fans—you will not be disappointed.