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.

Bombay Nights, Midnight Parties, and the Friend I Didn't Know I Needed

There was an outpouring of love this morning from all quarters after I posted and blogged about my late husband. I received so many "How are you?" messages that I felt absolutely touched. The world is indeed full of kind and wonderful people.

One among them who reached out was Tasneem, my colleague from Adfactors Bombay back in 2016. She was the sweetest thing—small, petite, and with the most generous heart. In fact, I once had an entire litre of Sheer Khurma, all thanks to her. She was also my neighbour in Kandivali, and we shared a cab on most days.

For whatever reason—consider it the immaturity of a brash 30-something, or perhaps I was just a much meaner person then—I just couldn’t get along very well with Tasneem. Clearly, I was the toxic one in that friendship. Yet, Tasneem kept in touch with me over the years. Every time she reaches out, I feel like that young 30-something all over again, living in Bombay and attending house parties until 3 AM. Living in Bombay and partying with my Adfactors colleagues until the wee hours of the morning was clearly the highlight of my youth and the best time of my life.

Each one of us in that gang was unique in our own way. We all had smart-talking mouths, were street-savvy, and were figuring out the Bombay media landscape for our roster of clients.

I apologised to Tasneem this morning when she messaged me, saying, "I’m so proud of you, Gayatri." If that right there is not true love, I really don’t know what is. I am blessed to have such wonderful friends and colleagues in my life, with Tasneem, of course, being one of them. Thank you, Tasneem, for always reaching out and always saying something wonderfully nice to me. I love you.

Three Feet in Time: An 18th Poopieversary Note

It was 3:45 AM when I distinctly had a vision of my late husband. He was dressed all in black with a pensive look on his face, holding his guitar and creating a new composition while standing in the music room of our sprawling 3BHK house in Powai. It was almost like he was telling me telepathically, “Slow down, Poopie. Your right knee is creaky—look after that. Don’t go crazy juggling Riaan’s after-school activities and work. Take a chill pill.”

Had he been alive, I’m pretty sure he would have just said, “I don’t know. Just figure it out, Poopie.” But perhaps dead Poopie is a saint now? Or is it just in my head?

My knee does creak by the way. It started last Sunday right in the middle of watching He-Man and the Masters of the Universe. As I was texting someone last evening, I’m an "old lady pants" now—who doesn’t actually wear pants because it’s too hot in Chennai.

Coming back to my late husband: today is 12th June 2026. We met exactly 18 years ago in the summer of 2008. No wonder I’m dreaming of him. The dead never leave us, do they? They’re tricky that way. We’re always one foot in the future, one in the present, and one in the past. We are three people all at the same time. By "we," I mean people who are experiencing loss and have more or less navigated the grief-monster with our fair share of cuts and bruises—both visible and invisible to the world.

I guess I’ve moved some figurative mountains since my husband passed, and I’ve lost track of how many because time is a blur to me. There are the daily deliverables of work and school. There is the constant life crisis of whether my child will be a homeless bum by 25 or if he’ll figure his shit out and get it together in school (he’s only in second standard by the way, so someone can whack me now; I’ll accept it). Then, there is the larger life crisis of what I’ll do once he goes to college. Should I get a superbike and ride all over the world, or should I invest in a very fancy old age home with a swimming pool and a badminton court so that I can continue being a small potato at home?

The questions are infinite, and the answers will only come slowly and steadily with the passage of time.

For now, yes, Poopie, I still remember you. You don’t have to look pensive and pass on telepathic messages to me. On that note, your back was already creaky five years ago, so my creaky knee is quite justified at almost 40, thank you very much. Shove some melody inside your son’s brains as well. The musical genius in him has still not awakened, and I’m tone-deaf, as you well know.

Happy 18th Poopieversary, my dearest Poopie. Riaan and I love and miss you. Well, I definitely do. For Riaan, you are sadly just a figment of his imagination, but he’s getting to know you with time.

Of Muses, Music, and Unfulfilled Desires

Music and food are my core memories. There are certain songs that instantly remind my son and me of his late father. John Legend's "All of Me" is one of them. He would play this song on repeat, chuckle, and say, "Did you know he was a management consultant too, just like me? He quit very early, though, to become a musician. I want to follow in his footsteps, Poopie."

In hindsight, I wish he had. He might still be alive today. If he had, I could have worn tiny bikinis and danced around in front of him while he made romantic, best-selling music videos. I digress, though; those are just my fantasies.

My late husband's original compositions were far from romantic, and they definitely gave me palpitations on stressful days. In fact, he composed a track for me titled "Poopie Monster." I have no idea where he saved it on his devices, so it is lost forever. I was someone's musical muse. What a pity it is that I don't even remember the melody anymore.

My late husband's life is a classic example of unfulfilled desires. We take for granted the time we have on Earth, pushing our deepest wishes to another day. But that day may never come. That is why it is so important to grab that superbike, be loud and screechy, and just be your authentic self—today and every day.

I definitely don't want to die young, nor do I want to die without living out all my deep, dark desires. I want to start by swimming in a pool filled with gooey chocolate sauce, drinking it now and then between laps. Can Willy Wonka hear me now?

So, go be a musician, drown yourself in a pool of chocolate, or do whatever it is that you truly want to do. Life is unpredictable. Absolutely nothing is in our control except for right now. Live in the moment—vicariously, fully, and wholeheartedly.

Conquering the Mid-Week Chaos

There are no more blues by mid-week because you've re-learnt to navigate the chaos from Monday. It's amazing how adaptable the human mind and body are. From eating 1.5 cheesecakes and way too many carbs over the weekend to suddenly shifting gears on Monday, it's an absolute jolt to the system. But it is a jolt we're all used to by now—until next Monday comes along.

The early morning and late-night tantrums paired with office work, sports, and school homework can drag anyone down. But not on a Wednesday. Today, we will not allow tiny humans at home and humans at work to fluster you. Today, you're a master of the routine. You've got this. Every file at work, every morsel of food to be prepared for school, post-school, and bedtime—it is all under control.

The finish line is almost close. The weekend plan is all set. The oil in your hair has all settled in for a beauty bath. The deep dark circles that make you look like the Corpse Bride still remain on your face despite the watermelon eye patches. But hey, you can't win them all.

To more Wonder Wednesdays! May we continue to conquer what's left of the week. As always, for any meltdowns, reach out for Moong dal halwa or sugar-free ice cream. They are extremely unhealthy yet wholesome options for the mind and body.

The Power of Emotional Support Mushrooms

My 7-year-old hugs a smiley-faced mushroom to sleep every night. His eyes and mouth close the moment the mushroom is tucked next to his chest. That stuffed toy has made bedtime so much easier and faster.

Emotional support mushrooms—we all need them, especially as adults. I vent all day and night until kingdom come to a few select human beings every day, and it makes my brain and heart feel so light. 

There is no shame in trying to heal with the help of your emotional support humans. We are social animals, and occasionally, our batteries need recharging. I recharge mine on a daily basis; until all the toxins are out of my engine, I keep whining. The moment that process is complete, I feel ready to get going again.

Emotional support mushrooms—may we all have at least three to five of them in our lives.

Eternia on the Big Screen: A Nostalgic Review of He-Man and the Masters of the Universe

My earliest memories of He-Man and Skeletor trace back to my grandfather’s bedroom during the summers of 1992 onwards. Back then, my Barbie dolls were vigorously attacked and "murdered" by GI Joe soldiers in various camps—on a boat inside a bucket full of water, or in a bunker with bombs and guns. He-Man, Skeletor, and Ram Man would often join the GI crew to mutilate enemy dolls.

I wasn't upset, as I loved mutilating my dolls, too. Annabelle would have run away from me at age five. Beheading my dolls and drawing on heavy makeup until they looked like Heath Ledger's Joker was my one and only job. Watching that chaotic battleground alongside two 12-year-old boys making battle noises was fascinating. I was always conflicted between killing my Barbies alongside the action figures or standing inside the bucket of water with the GI Joe figure on the boat. What tempting options!

Surprisingly, I simply sat and gaped at my brothers as they caused mass destruction, realizing what I'd been missing out on all my life. The destruction I was causing was apparently too tame. There was a whole other world of chaos that I was yet to discover and master.

The first time I saw biceps and biscuits for abs was on He-Man's plastic body. His haircut looked just like my mother's. He looked very interesting and immediately caught my attention. Skeletor looked equally fascinating with his skull for a face. What sorcery was this? Which magical land had I been transformed into?

All my childhood questions were answered in the new He-Man and the Masters of the Universe film. In the first ten seconds of looking at He-Man (Nicholas Galitzine) and his handsome face covered by a blonde bob haircut, I knew exactly why I was fascinated with long-haired men throughout my teenage years. What a gorgeous soundtrack the movie had, and Eternia along with Castle Grayskull looked so familiar to me, like I had grown up watching them all my life.

I can only imagine how emotional the boys who played with He-Man action figures would have been throughout the movie. Even I shed a tear when young Prince Adam saw his parents being dragged away by Skeletor, and I laughed as he explained his childhood to his Hinge date, who ghosted him the minute he finished talking about his home.

I could relate to He-Man in a way that only a girl with two young brothers could. The movie is an absolute must-watch for He-Man lovers and for those who cheered on their He-Man lovers. You'll feel right at home, and you'll laugh and cry along with He-Man and Skeletor. What a funny villain indeed! Watching Skeletor and all his hilarious antics was definitely the icing on the cake of this movie.

I rate He-Man and the Masters of the Universe 5 stars!

The Social Animal's Guide to Poolside Fury

All Indians are my brothers and sisters—except for 20 to 25 of them who are definitely not.I am that annoying aunty on the train who shares her Jim Jam biscuits and asks nosey questions about where you are travelling and who lives there. Add to this personality trait a 16-year career where I simply must interact with countless people a day to get work moving, and it is safe to say I love people. 

The term "social animal" was clearly invented for me. I am social to the point that my older brother tells me to pipe down. He once mentioned, out of sheer frustration, "The moment your sermon is done, your son's begins. There is absolutely no peace in this house."

Anyway, I love people, as long as they are talking to me and answering all 10,000 of my questions.

However, throw those very same people into a swimming pool along with their tiny humans, and "hell hath no fury like a woman scorned." My colony has a beautiful swimming pool that was built close to two years ago. It is the first chlorine-free, ozone-treated, semi-Olympic-sized pool in the city. I have interacted with people from all over the city inside this pool.

But on a weekend morning—at 6:00 AM to be exact—I am not in a chatty mood. I like my peace and quiet during my one-hour dip. Sadly, this slot during summers in Chennai is absolutely the worst time to go for a swim. The pool looks like a Kandivali local train, with literally hundreds of people bumping into you and apologizing profusely afterward.

The decibel levels on those tiny humans are so loud that I feel bad—for less than half a second—for having added to our nation's destructive tiny-human population. There is no peace during my nirvana time. I am bumped into a hundred times by first-time swimmers and learners. To their "I'm so sorry," I reply with profuse coughing because half the pool is inside my lungs by then.

Ah, humans. Wonderful creatures—except inside a swimming pool. Sigh!

Here is hoping for a more peaceful swim session next Sunday morning. Until then, don't pee in the pool, and pull your swimming costume down over all your wobbly bits.

The Soundtrack of My Heart: From Goth Rock to Soulful Melodies

Myles Kennedy, King, Arjun Kanungo, and my late husband. I clearly have a thing for good-looking musicians who make music with all their heart. Now, had my late husband been alive and read that first sentence, he would have had a heart attack. He hated pop music—at least in front of the outside world. We did a Backstreet Boys marathon all night once, and he swore me to secrecy to never reveal that night to anyone he knew.

Music is such a beautiful way to express emotions and make people fall in love. I fell in love with my late husband's guitar even before I understood his personality. Luckily for me, both the man and the machine turned out to be pure gems. That was my first and last early-20s hormonal decision that turned out absolutely A-ok.

Coming back to Myles Kennedy, King, and Arjun Kanungo now: what voices, what faces, what music, and what lyrics. I fall in love every time I play these men on Spotify. It has been love at first hearing for me. 

Oh, and Chester Bennington—pinch me for forgetting to add his name right at the beginning! That anxiety-ridden voice and those on-point lyrics touched the soul of every '90s kid. I wouldn't start my homework if I hadn't heard Hybrid Theory or Meteora from end to end. 

By college, I pretended to be too cool for their music and moved on to heavier metal bands like Iron Maiden, Metallica, Def Leppard, Megadeth, Guns N' Roses, Within Temptation, and Aerosmith.

I think it's safe to say I love musicians. Who wouldn't? I would attend all the local Unwind Center concerts in the city dressed in all black—a long black skirt with a tight black tank top, black nail polish, and goth jewellery. Yes, I was quite a handful as a teenager. God bless my parents' souls even today for having put up with me.

Anyway, coming back to the topic at hand. Soulful musicians—they are everyone's cup of coffee, I think. Sigh!

The Shoes We Don't Try to Fill

Yet another Starbucks morning with my bean, but today felt different. I spoke to him at length about his father and why Starbucks has suddenly become my favourite cafe over the last 5 years. 

At 7.5 years old, he asks all the right questions and listens so attentively that a wet sponge would be put to shame. I told him to remember his late father with love and respect, even if he doesn't remember him well.

"What if you suddenly die, maamaa?" he asked, with worry in his beady-eyes and voice.

"Why would I, darling?" I asked.

"Because I already have a father who is dead."

I had to explain his father's life choices that led to his freak and untimely demise, and assure him that neither of us will follow in his footsteps. We will only take away everything he did right—starting with his hard work, intelligence, and love for family. 

As I spoke about my beloved late husband to our son, I felt a sense of relief in my heart, as if someone were pouring buckets of ice cubes on my chest.

The entire conversation, which started at Starbucks and ended at Lifestyle's watch counter, felt extremely therapeutic for me. 

Fathers play such an important role in shaping your personality. Mine made me sharp yet loving, hardworking yet warm, aggressive yet all heart, and razor-sharp focused both at work and at home. 

I can never fill his father's shoes, and I don't even want to try. But I try every day to pass all of his work ethics and values on to him. For everything else, there is always Starbucks and its ambience, which feels like home—or rather, feels like my late husband. 

From Gayatri to Riaan: A Chennai Rite of Passage

Chennai, my sweet filter kaapi and jasmine flower smelling city. For as long as I lived away from you for almost 8 years of my marriage, I missed you with my dear life. As long as I lived here during my school, college and work years I've faught with auto annas and never made peace with the hot and cold.

I was binding my son's Tamil textbook today and noticed a misspelling of his name by his teacher - Riyaan Bhattacharya. I wonder who Riyaan is and I'm sure Riaan will also wonder who Riyaan is. It's a story for his college drinking days and perhaps corporate parties where he can either crib or cry about why his teachers always misspelt his name and made him sound like a girl-boy, while infact he is only a boy.

I chuckled as I bound his textbook because there were 10 Gayathri's in my class and no one spelt their name as Gayatri like mine. Notice the lack of the H. There's no H in my name. However for as long as I remember - classteachers across school and college and some friends and colleagues even today write and pronounce my name is Gayathri - with the jarring H.

I've made peace with it, because I am a daughter of the city. How dare I spell my name as Gayatri? Where's the H thambi? Put H immediately, no questions asked. Okay anna, thambi, akka and ayyah, I oblige and mentally salute my city's unreasonable request.

My heart has truly broken only when office birthday parties and farewell parties spelt my name as Gayathri with the H on all my cakes. That's a tragedy now because namakku soru dhaan mukkiyam. I would cut the cake into 100 pieces and give the H piece away to somebody else.

Anyway, coming back to Riyaan Bhattacharya now. Welcome to generational trauma my son. Passed down from the city I was raised over to you.

One day, we'll raise glasses and chuckle about it. For now, I'll pretend I didn't see anything and go along with your teachers misspelling of your name. 

Nutellas, Assemble!

There is greater strength in letting go than in holding on for dear life. This applies to people who are both dead and alive in your life. Accept different perspectives, however hard they are to digest, and just keep moving forward, doing what you do. 

With time, you will eventually be able to look back at that moment in your life with sadness, regret, or happiness. But whatever you do, do not hold on unless the effort is reciprocated.There is a pain greater than death in this world, and it comes from people who are alive. Even if you do not agree with what they say, just nod and move along for your own sanity and peace of mind. 

All you can do is be your wonderful, kind self. That is it. Do not expect the same kindness back. Do not expect people to return your affection either.These are things I have learned the hard way over time. 

It is okay to feel that boulder in your chest every now and then. Let the feeling settle, and then pass. Allow yourself to process it. But letting go is an absolute must.I think only the nicest people in the world feel so deeply. 

I am definitely a nice person—a wholesome jar of unhealthy Nutella, to be exact. Some days, the hazelnuts feel heavier in the spread, and some days, the spread just spreads evenly on the toast. 

For all the in-between days, we cling to our sugary sweetness and let that bitter gourd feeling pass. Nutellas, assemble! We will eventually save the world with our sweetness. Today is just not that day.

The After-School Hurricane

High as a kite,

An unguided missile and a hijacked flight,

These were my son's emotions,

Post-school, confirmed by his restless motions,

Even seven hours of school,

Can't bring down that boy or make him lose his cool.

What will tire him?

I wondered on a whim,

How can I get him to stop using me as his bouncy castle?

It is definitely a hassle,

As I try my best to unwind,

After a tiring day at work that sucked out all my wind,

But here he was, my boy wonder,

Thrashing around the house to loot and plunder,

High as a kite,

An unguided missile and a hijacked flight.

Temporary Problems, Forever Cheesecake

Your feelings can never be faked,

In front of a decadent blueberry cheesecake.

She's seen me in tears,

Over the years,

Over various non-problems of mine,

Which go away after 24 hours of cribbing and whining.

No problems are too big,

The moment you transform yourself into a blueberry cheesecake eating pig.

I say pig because I eat my share,

And my son's leftovers without a care.

1.5 cheesecakes down, life suddenly has meaning,

My eyes are no longer gleaning.

The tears dry up,

The heartbreak is gone thanks to a creamy gulp.

Sugar rush has been achieved,

The momentary pain has been relieved.

For cheesecake is forever,

Temporary problems, they come and go, whenever.

Your feelings can never be faked,

In front of a decadent blueberry cheesecake.

The Chennai Paradox

Extreme the weather in Chennai,

And extreme the moods of the people in Chennai,

In summers, we complain about the heat,

During the monsoons, if one drop of water falls on our head we bleat,

No weather can satisfy us,

We're always making a fuss,

Either about Veyil Kālam,

Or Maḻaikkālam,

The rain Gods,

And the summer Gods,

Probably look at us Chennaiites,

And pity their plight,

Do we rain or shine,

They wonder while watching us from cloud nine,

We drink filter kaapi in the heat,

And Jigarthanda in the monsoons to stay upbeat,

We're a strange lot,

Our moods fluctuate between cold and hot,

Extreme the weather in Chennai,

And extreme the moods of the people in Chennai.

Rabid Icecream Eating Mammals

Too many icecream flavours have been had,

My soul finally feels super glad,

The heat inside and outside, 

Makes me want to hide,

The Ibaco server looked at me like I was mad,

For, as mentioned before, too many scoops have been had,

Just as he'd settle into serving the next customer,

My son and I would attack the counter like two road-runners,

Spoon in my hand,

And icecream smeared on his face like a baby vampire, together we looked like an uncouth band,

Cup and after cup,

Without pausing even once to hiccup,

We turned into rabid icecream eating animals,

The two most ferocious land mammals,

Too many icecream flavours have been had,

My soul definitely feels super glad.

Bondas, Nirvana, and the 100th Slam-Hug

Bondas. Doesn't the very word make your mouth water? Bondas drowning inside white chutney and six to seven generous droplets of sambar. Watering even more, right?

Bondas, for me, ladies and gentlemen, are not a mere plate of deep-fried carbs. No, they are an emotion, a journey, a state of happiness, and my place of nirvana. There's practically nothing that can come between my face and my plate of two bondas. Okay, I'm lying—three bondas. (Four if it's been a very bad week or I just want to be a gluttonous pig.)

This humble staple can be found in households across India under various guises, starting with Mumbai's Vada, Aloo Tikki, Ragda Patties, Alu Chop, Mysore Bonda, and so on. 

The very same dish, with the very same emotion, across India. Comfort on a plate on a rainy Tuesday, a hot Thursday, or a lazy weekend at home.Of course, the weighing scale goes up by a crazy, full kilo the next morning, but who cares?

 

You're happy from the deep corners of your tired soul, you're recharged for the crazy week that's waiting for you to conquer, and you suddenly have the strength for your son's 100th bone-crushing slam-hug. 

Life is good with a spicy plate of deep-fried bondas. I just can't complain. Grab your plate today and attain zen-like peace.

Take the Selfie, Sister: You Earned It

Are you really a narcissist if you take one selfie after getting nice and dolled up like a sparkling Christmas tree over the weekend, simply for record-keeping? Is that really such a bad thing? 

Through the weekdays, I look like a frazzled, homeless donut in flamingo-printed pink and teal blue boxer shorts with a variety of t-shirts (getting very specific with the details now so that you understand my selfie obsession). 

Therefore, dolling-up occasions are few and far between. An outing with my son—click, click. An outing with a girlfriend for dinner and drinks—clickity-click. Meeting family from all corners of the world once a year—an infinite number of clicks. See what I mean?

How does record-keeping of gorgeous moments with close friends and family fall under the bracket of narcissism? Take selfies; use your discretion. Taking a selfie a day starting from the toilet to your living room and into your kitchen? Mmm, you have a selfie obsession; maybe fewer clickities for you.

Also, I've been a fat cow practically all my life. Under some stroke of good luck and a very vigorous personal trainer, I've discovered collarbones. Cue the emotional crying now. I didn't even know there were bones here. What a revelation! 

Therefore and hence, of course, I will take selfies to capture the above-mentioned bones. Who knows how long they will exist? Take selfies, sister; you deserve them. 

More power to this selfie-obsessed generation. May we know them, may we be them, and may we applaud them—today and everyday. Mic drop!

Why '90s Cartoons Are the Secret to Millennial Mental Strength

What a wholesome cartoon and jingle Captain Planet and the Planeteers was. It has been stuck in my head the past two mornings, helping me power through my early morning walks. 

What full-of-life and message-driven cartoons we watched as kids—SWAT Kats, Johnny Bravo, Dexter’s Laboratory, The Powerpuff Girls, and Scooby-Doo.The comic timing was so precise that by the end of the episode, the subliminal messages were all driven right home.

I think millennials are mentally strong today, quietly putting their heads down to work while managing family responsibilities, largely thanks to these cartoons.

Depressed? Watch one episode of Scooby-Doo. Bad day at work? Turn on SWAT Kats. Feel like punching someone in the face? Watch The Powerpuff Girls.Good always wins over evil. 

So remember to stay raw, undiluted, unfiltered, and, most importantly, a good human being.No toxic elements of society—whether at work or in your personal space—can bring you down with their negativity. 

Let the light radiate through your backside all the way to every core of your body.Just shun evil in any form, starting with petty gossip and ending with a silly back pain. We don't look in that direction because we make our own direction, filled with hot chocolate and balls of steel.End of story. 

Go watch some '90s cartoons now and transform into a good badass, if you aren't one already.

Beating Hearts, Not Excel Sheets

I received a call yesterday afternoon from a lovely recruiter. I rejected the position the moment I heard about it. However, our conversation continued for a good half an hour. 

We spoke about our families, why we choose to work the way we do, and so on. By the end of that conversation, I assured her I would look for vacancies in my current organisation for her, and she promised to stay in touch as well.

The bond between strangers—between human beings—is complicated and beautiful at the same time. There are so many commonalities between yourself and any given person walking down the street. A warm smile and a few friendly questions to nudge them open are all you need to break the ice and eventually build some sort of rapport.

Maybe this is why I have chosen my career path. It is definitely not for the money, the promotions, or the awards. For me, my work has always been about people—getting people to open up to me so that I can write a brilliant story about their lives or their life's work.

Back to my friendly recruiter from yesterday afternoon who managed to wrangle a future reference from me; what wonderful PR skills she had. I suppose every person needs communication as a core part of their personality and job expertise. 

We work with human beings with beating hearts at the end of the day, not numbers on an Excel sheet that have delivered a certain number of pages for the month.

Let's never forget the human side of ourselves as we do our jobs, talk to our friends and families, and, most importantly, to ourselves. The voice in our own head needs to be the kindest. 

For everything else, there's always Hot Chocolate from Ciclo Cafe. Peace!

The Halwa Motivation

A little over two hours short of my beauty sleep,

I'm definitely rolling in the deep.

Hopefully my brisk morning walk,

Will throw me out of my mental block.

The pile of work lying ahead of me today,

Makes me want to crawl back into yesterday.

But we've got this—my brain and I,

We will look that entire pile, eye to eye.

I'm such a hard worker,

I definitely deserve more moong dal halwa today.

Some sugar on sleep-deprived days,

Can kickstart your brain in many, many ways.

Off sugar I'll go from next week again,

For now, I'd just like to stuff my face and say "Amen".

Exorcising My 2025 Ghost

Ghosting—that confusing phenomenon which happens only to the best of us. My ghoster pops into my head in the form of long, elaborate dreams once every six months, like last night, for example. I woke up disoriented. I had to remind myself, "Behen, this story ended in the summer of 2025. In fact, it wasn't even a story—more like two tiny sentences inside a tumbling paragraph." 

I quickly used AI to decipher what my brain was trying to tell me. An "emotional cleanse," apparently, or in my words, an "emotional, nice, long, satisfying early morning dump"—clear the fecal matter and allow space for quality specimens similar to the Alphonso mango; one bite and you don't want to stop.

I digress. Coming back to the topic of ghosting: it truly only happens to the best of us. We open up too soon, faster than The Flash. It's quite natural that they would run because they probably never wanted to open up in the first place. You weren't window shopping; they were. You were planning to bring home a lovely skirt; they were just browsing through all the racks of clothes. 

No one is to blame in this situation except the ghoster. Next time, just tell the person who is not window shopping that you are, and no hearts will get burnt.

In the words of my good friend five nights ago, who clapped his hands with glee and said, "Wah! Very good!" when I mentioned my ghoster from one year ago—it's about time I also said, "Wah! Very good." 

My brain, just like any other hormonal human brain, is confused at times. Never forget the person that you are when you get ghosted. Hold onto yourself. 

Let that window shopper go. Rest easy, knowing you will go back home with a quality cashmere scarf one day. So, let's wait for that day. Peace!

Why My 7-Year-Old’s Hard Bargains Mean I’m Doing Something Right

I think the greatest disservice we can do while raising the current generation of kids is to micromanage them. They are, in fact, not mini-mes—however nice that may sound while captioning Instagram photos. They are themselves. 

To have a child who raises their voice back at you and gives you utter hell at home starting from 6:00 AM is a child who is fiercely independent. Congratulations to you; this means you have not suffocated your child with your archaic thought processes.

Let’s accept for a moment that our thought processes are archaic. We didn’t grow up with Peppa Pig, Cocomelon, and Minecraft to keep us company after school. So no, we, in fact, do not understand their brains as much as we want to believe we do. 

Don’t want to play badminton after two months of coaching? That’s fine. Don’t want to learn swimming officially but just want to splash around inside the pool? Perfectly alright. Want to make exactly ten friends with one best friend who hasn’t changed since L.K.G.? Wonderful. Struggling with languages and still think you’re a boss? Um, that’s where I draw the line. But I’m learning to let go of his limited language knowledge.

We cannot cling onto our children as an extension of our identities or lives. We have to let them fly and fall, make their own decisions, make mistakes, correct them, and so on. 

Empty nest syndrome is anyway going to hit all of us hard the moment they leave our houses for academic or career aspirations, so why make it harder on ourselves by clinging onto them? 

In the words of my 75-year-old father, “We always knew you’d fly away with your wings, girl,” he says with arms flapping on both sides. Easy for him to say considering his grandson visits him every weekend and I live less than a kilometer away from him.

But forget us; this next generation is bolder, stronger, sharper, more opinionated, and has stronger personalities. Let’s just watch them fly with pride in our eyes. I’m proud of my seven-year-old, even if my pooja room is currently his very messy toy corner, even if he doesn't sleep in his own room yet, and all the more because he stares me down like we’re in a courtroom and hard-bargains on his weekend outings and toy purchases. 

Now, this kid needs to be a lawyer. But, I’ll let him decide, of course. I’m choosing not to be a helicopter parent today or any day.

What kind of parenting style are you following?

Zero Bandwidth for Fake Energy

Perhaps I'm perimenopausal, as my nighttime sleep is absolutely light. Or maybe it's the fact that I've lived half my life on Earth, assuming I live until 80. The point is, my tolerance for bullshit is so low now that I can actually feel multiple veins snapping in various parts of my body (I like to call this the Hulk phenomenon) when I have to put up with fake conversations, fake smiles, and basically just about anything fake.

My patience levels are at an all-time low. I'm busier than ever, just like any hassled millennial parent, and I simply don't have the emotional bandwidth for garbage. So, if you don't have a kind word to say, you can either choose to recycle yourself or maintain silence and keep a mile away from me.

Close friends and family, of course, know how to get their message across in a diplomatic manner without mincing words. I hear them, I see them, and I choose to agree or disagree with their point of view. 

The energy and time we invest in people at this juncture in our lives are so important. I want to surround myself only with those who uplift and inspire. I don't have the patience for petty gossip or talk about large world problems that do not concern me or my child.

It is strange how I have such epiphanies during 3 AM sleepless nights like this. But it's a good epiphany to have, I think.

Oh No! It's Monday

Oh no! It's Monday,

The day that flies the fastest has to be Sunday,

What makes this particular morning worse,

Is a radiating shoulder blade pain, like an excruciating curse,

I just want to sleep,

Go back into my slumber, nice and deep,

Why do the weekends fly?

In my bed, I want to lie,

Sleeping all day and night,

With no work in sight,

Perhaps I should,

For another two hours, I really should,

I'll wake up less crabby,

And hopefully feel far from shabby.

No Nanoships and Definitely No Walking Tsunamis

With the advent of dating apps and sex being indulged in by all and sundry like we're back in the Stone Age, the sanctity of marriage and relationships has been reduced to a very large, well-fed horse taking a gigantic dump and saying, "Aaah! When's my next feed?"

So I give up on trying to explain my stance. I give up on talking about the beautiful marriage and relationship I had with a gorgeous man who really leveled up the playing field for all men in general.

When friends and family ask why I'm still single after 5 years, I look no further than my dearest poopie. Imagine, a grown 21-year-old let me call him poopie until the day he died. He called me poopie right back. There was so much love, we made a mini-version of him, who looks like him, sounds like him, and is probably more him than me.

So when people ask, "Are you over your husband?", my answer is a resounding no. How can I be over a man who shaped my early adulthood, who made me a wife, a mother, and now a widow? No, sir. That's one man I can never forget or get over.

"You're never going to get married again," said my late husband's best friend, quite bluntly to my face two nights ago, and I immediately retorted, "What rubbish! Of course I will! Just not with the walking tsunamis and Hurricane Katrinas I'm meeting now."

Love has never been trivial for me. The greatest ambition in my life as an 8-year-old was to get married and have lots of babies. "I want a beach wedding," I'd tell my grandfather, and he'd reply, "But the crows will eat all the pappadam from the sadya, that may not work, mole."

"Okay, appuppa. What about a mountain wedding then?" I'd persist. "I'll be too old then, Gayu, to climb up and see you get married," he'd reply. "Don't worry about all that, appuppa, I'll get a helicopter just to bring you to the top," I'd insist.

Needless to say, I've byhearted every cheesy Hollywood romcom dialogue by heart, starting with Julia Roberts' one-liner in Notting Hill: "I'm just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to love her." And, "Never lie, steal, cheat, or drink. But if you must lie, lie in the arms of the one you love. If you must steal, steal away from bad company. If you must cheat, cheat death. And if you must drink, drink in the moments that take your breath away," from Hitch. Or, "Take it with you so you'll always have a way to look back... and remember me," from the Beauty and the Beast.

My brain is mush. Tiramisu mixed with chocolate mousse, to be exact. I loved intensely at 21 and that's the only way I know how to love. I'm either all in or not at all. There are absolutely no shades of grey for me when it comes to love.

I understand how important it is to have a loving, supportive partner and how to nurture that relationship over time. So no, I don't do nanoships, situationships, breadcrumbing, ghosting, or benching.

I'm a modern-day Belle looking for my beast, and until I find him, I'm happy to remain single because I'd rather explore the world alone and eat all my meals alone than spend my time trying to fix a 'beast' who refuses to grow up. Also, I already have a mini-beast at home who needs raising. So my hands are quite full. 

My Soulmate Gynaecologist

It's so important to have a good gynaecologist by your side, whatever stage of life you're in. I've been blessed with some great gynaecologists over the years who made my pregnancy and motherhood experience as smooth as possible.

Fast forward to five years ago, my PCOD was worse than ever. Every cycle made me nauseous, more weepy, and left me in unbearable pain. That's when I stumbled upon my present gynaecologist. 

She looked my mum straight in the face and said, "Yes, you're a very supportive family and you've stood by this girl through this very difficult time, but none of you are her husband. Never forget that. She's just lost someone who was a very vital part of her life. So, this pain she's experiencing is nothing but the trauma in her head."

I think for me, in that one moment, I knew that Dr Narassa Narayani was my soulmate gynaecologist. She was empathetic, empowering, encouraging, and no-nonsense all at the same time.

The conversations we have had range from PCOD problems to parenting, to all my hair colours over the years, and what kind of man I should marry if I ever choose to get married again.

With Dr Narassa, the conversation about my ailment lasts for exactly two minutes. The remaining consultation time feels like I'm in a coffee shop, meeting an old friend after years.

She's warm, friendly, and super fun to talk to. I've never met a bad gynaecologist in my life, to be honest. They just understand women on such a deep level; even our partners (in the past and going forward) could never understand us the way they do.

I'm blessed to have Dr Narassa in my life. Find yourself a good gynaecologist if you haven't already. Otherwise, I highly recommend Dr Narassa for any and every issue you may be facing. 

My Make or Break Point

Everyone's life has a make-or-break point. You can choose either to be defined by that moment and remain there forever, or to move forward bravely, learning valuable lessons from the past.

I reached this point five years ago when my world collapsed. I could do nothing about it except stand and watch helplessly. In that moment, though, despite the grief, the anger, the sadness, and the sense of betrayal that I felt, I only saw my toddler's sweet, round face. 

I knew my job was to protect him from every evil in the world. I'm grateful for the fact that he was only two when his father passed, so he'll hopefully never remember me as that broken widow who woke up screaming from vivid nightmares every other day and night, or who broke down at the sight of a plate of food. 

I was half in the world of the living and mostly in the world of the dead. I wondered why God had kept me alive and what my purpose was. The pain was unbearable, both physically and mentally.

I was a shell of a person for a very long time. Nothing I did made sense. The skies looked different. I couldn't understand how people were just continuing to live, doing mundane things like eating out, working out, or bragging about a promotion. Everything seemed meaningless.

Four months into that insanity, I decided to pick up the pieces of my life and contribute my tiny skills to the world. I remember that job interview very well with a very senior HR leader, alongside my good friend and colleague of over a decade.

"Why do you want to work, Gayatri?" he asked.

I don't remember my reply in that moment. I just knew I had to get out of the house and do something with my mind and body. Months later, I thanked her for helping me land that opportunity. But, being the wonderful woman she is, she assured me that I was in that organisation because of my skills and knowledge. I don't believe her to this day, quite honestly. I know I got that job only because of her.

Over the years, my grief has taken various forms. Five years later, I can safely say I'm still heartbroken but never defeated; still cut up, but never losing hope in good people and miracles; still feeling a sense of betrayal, but trying my best to be cautious moving forward.

The immediate support system you have in the form of family, friends, and colleagues during such dark phases in life is so important. Each person has pushed me out of my grief and encouraged me to excel without looking back. I wouldn't be the person I am today if it weren't for such wonderful people in my life. You know who you are.