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.

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.