Insomnia

The brain has not shut up since 4.30AM,

On weekdays it's asleep till 4.30P.M,

Gulmohar Malare has been playing in my head,

However hard I try to rest in bed,

It's been a mishmash of craving poha and wanting to tell Prasanth,

No bro, dupattas cannot be tied around any man,

When women themselves find it annoying,

It's scratchy around the neck, and was meant only for destroying,

I've burnt all three of mine,

Archaic, it's design,

And pointless it's existence,

I have been consistent in my resistance,

Of not wearing dupattas,

Now tell me what is Gulmohar Malare,

And most importantly where have I heard this annoying song,

I find it strange that I'm singing along,

Get out of my head you funny song,

You're in the wrong,

Find another brain to haunt,

For I just want,

To catch up on my beauty sleep,

Find some other brain to creep,

Zzzzzzzzzz.

Bread Halwa

Is there anything more decadent than bread halwa,

In the world of halwas,

No, no and no,

Come to think of it, even Shahi tukda is fabulous you know,

Bread, sugar, milk, ghee and butter,

What's not to love, you instantly feel less bitter,

The world is a happier place again,

Suddenly your inner strength regains,

Some sugar and carbs,

Is all it takes to make your heart soar like the birds,

If you've seen babies on sugar high,

You haven't seen me fly,

With a little bit of sugar in my system,

My entire being glistens,

Sugar, my darling sugar,

I wish you weren't such a nasty bugger,

All my meals would have started and ended with you,

Now I find myself sneaking a chocolate or two,

Whenever the brain is fried,

And I instantly dream of ghee fried,

Crushed, crumbled and crispy,

Bread based desserts, that I'm sure I'll gobble way beyond fifty.

A Meaty Feast

Food makes me delirious,

The mood instantly becomes less serious,

The chatter becomes more garbled,

Just like all the mish-mash of food that was gobbled,

Prawn 65, kola urundai, mutton stew,

Bread halwa, chicken curry and copious amounts of rice that will make you want to stay,

Each meat had a distinct flavour,

A crispy crunch, a gooey slurp, a soothing sip, each bite a decadent favour,

To the eager mind,

More than the body, that's screaming, "you're mad!",

"Stop stuffing me up",

Unless you want to go straight up,

But live, I must,

For there's still so much more delicate meat in the world that cannot be missed,

Eat, I will,

And then sleep well,

For that's the natural order of things,

Eat, sleep, repeat, food is one of my favourite things,

The easiest way into my heart,

Is through food, pure art,

On a plate, 

You can be early or late,

But feed me,

And I just may,

Become your friend for life.

The Eternal Flux

A woman's weight is always in flux,

Green tea is consumed in copious cups,

But the mum-tum,

Refuses to budge, suddenly the double chin begins to hum,

Just when you thought you'd gotten rid of all that flab,

Thanks to a fever that happened five minutes ago, the gap,

Between your jean button and the button hole,

Begins to increase, weren't you a pole,

Just five minutes ago, along with that wretched fever,

It made you a believer,

Of looking 20 in your forties,

Then you realise, your body fat wants to be naughty,

It wants to take you for a ride,

You'll have to eat your main course as a side,

And drink water instead of food, whenever you're hungry,

I miss the good old days of wearing dungarees,

And closely resembling a round boy,

Such a killjoy,

Being a woman, you're expected to multitask,

And constantly keep track,

Of the weighing scale,

Scrutize every detail,

Look impossibly skinny,

Be pleasant like Minnie,

The mouse of course,

And show no remorse.

Cheesecakes

Blueberry, strawberry, caramel or plain,

One bite into this delicious cloud and you'll discover thunderclouds and a burst of rain,

Flooding your palate,

You're left with nothing but awe for the talent,

Who baked that subtle indulgence,

To cheesecakes I pledge my allegiance,

Today and everyday,

Until the day,

I crave some gaajar halwa,

I should probably stop the excess sugar intake, somebody call a,

Pharmacy and get me a weighing scale,

The mum-tum is slowly resembling that of a whale,

Up and down it goes,

Hopefully everything I wear just flows,

With the food baby, 

I give birth to after every meal, quite proudly and bravely,

Back to cheesecakes now,

Eat them now or later, but eat them anyhow,

And tell me you absolutely love it,

At a later date, we can find ways to get fit,

But for now, eat that cheesecake,

It's the best cake,

In the whole entire world.

A Loveless Generation

We live in a generation of ghosters,

And boasters,

Wealth and material possessions

Are given importance over real connections,

Pretend to be Julia Roberts today, standing in front of a boy, asking him to love her,

And the chap will run a mile and turn back never,

Songs are trending on heartbreaks and breakups,

Relationships are full of complications,

Gone are the days, when piping hot gaajar halwa and decadent hot chocolate did the trick,

We live in a generation that wants something quick,

Blink and you miss,

It fizzles out faster than a snake's hiss,

I'll probably die alone,

Or find a nice cozy nook, where I'll finally belong,

It's all up in the air,

In the meantime, I'll make peace with my well-chopped hair. 

Grief

Grief is like a boulder lodged inside your chest,

It doesn't let you rest,

Sleep is a forgotten friend,

The nights just don't seem to end,

You find yourself walking around in the dark corners of the house,

Hoping to speak to your dead spouse,

Or whoever close to you just departed,

Death is a finality, something that truly rips you apart,

You find yourself walking like the living dead,

And living inside your head,

Unable to truly snap out of that trauma,

Everything you speak sounds like drama,

But one day, you get out of bed,

And you realise, every last teardrop has been shed,

The pain never dries up,

But you rise up,

And decide to go back into the world of the living,

You soon begin forgiving,

Your dead spouse and God,

And decide to give life a nod,

You're different, a little more fearless,

Far from cheerless,

You've fixed the broken pieces,

And decided to do exactly what the heart pleases.

Mutton Biriyani

The decadent Mutton biriyani from Cresent,

Has a burst of flavours that are pleasant,

Sure, you feel gassy and bloated, the next day,

But there's no way,

It will break your heart,

Other than a couple of smelly farts,

Biriyani doesn't leave you on read or ghost you,

Instead, it drives away all your blues,

Therefore Biriyani > People,

Choose Biriyani today and everyday, avoid being one among the sheeple,

As for the broken heart,

There is none, forget it exists and continue creating art,

Erase, delete, forget, let go,

For change is the only way you grow. 

37

37 today,

A year older than yesterday,

Woke up with a twisted and strained back,

I could almost feel my bones crack,

There's no escaping old age,

So might as well turn that page,

Of pretending to be young and fun,

Perhaps I'm not quite done,

But the aches and pains,

And the inflamed veins,

Remind me to slow down,

Gone are the days of being the class clown,

Say that to my mouth though,

And you will know,

It's hard for me to shut up,

So 37 only for the body, the mind is still a pup,

Curious, loud and annoying,

Happily destroying,

Peace in a room,

I specialise is shooing away gloom and doom,

Perhaps I should stop bragging,

And choose to start dragging,

My broken back to the cosy confines of my bed,

Where I shall finally rest my 37 year old head. 

Vada

The humble golden delight,

That instantly makes the world feel right,

Deep fried or dunked in curd,

Don't pluck on it like a bird,

Gorge, gorge and gorge,

Like Peppa's little brother George,

Snort it, sniff it, polish it,

But make sure you finish it,

In the dozens,

Don't think about the repercussions,

Enjoy it while it lasts,

The crispy, crunchy rapid blasts,

Exploding in your brain and mouth,

It's best made in the South,

With sambaar and chutney or curd and boondi,

Spice up your afternoon tea,

Or every single meal,

Munch on it with zeal,

I'm all out of words,

Go grab that Vada now, before the night sky gets more blurred

Happy and Sad

Some days are happy, some sad,

But there are zero days that are bad,

Sadness is like a dark cloud burst in your brain,

But why cry in vain,

When you can have a Shree Mithai, paneer-aloo sandwich,

And allow all that anguish,

To just leave your body,

Like it was nobody,

No point being sad,

Just be glad,

That food exists,

Eat, eat and eat if the sadness persists,

Tomorrow is another day,

Bad things ultimately go away,

Patience and time,

Much like subtle, yet aromatic thyme,

Heals all bumps and bruises,

So simply refuse,

To feel sad,

There is much food to be had. 

Mischief Maker

 

Once upon a time,

There lived a little girl who loved to rhyme,

She scribbled notes for her granny,

And destroyed pearl necklaces that belonged to her nanny,

She ate too much,

And spoke too much,

She wasn't too naughty,

Perhaps a wee bit haughty,

For the longest time, she had no sense of being a little lady,

She wore boxer shorts and fell off her bicycle like crazy,

A bump and a bruise,

A lady bug and some mud, all came to her use,

Alas, one day, puberty caught up,

And momma told her to sit up,

No more torn boxers and behaving like a boy,

No more plastic guns for toys,

Behave, behave, behave,

Ultimately, she had to cave,

But under all the sparkly eyeliners,

There still lives that crazy little girl, who loves burgers and milkshake diners,

She continues to eat too much,

And talk too much,

The world can align,

For she ain't falling in line!

Life And Death

 I've seen both at close quarters,

And I'm happy to report,

Neither has made me bitter,

Or made me a quitter,

The empath in me became stronger,

And colours suddenly appeared brighter,

Picture Daredevil, with the heightened senses,

I no longer have the patience for pretenses,

In widowhood was born,

A version of me that didn't want to mourn,

My mind has erased all the trauma,

I have undergone,

A full cleanse,

Almost telling me, that my current existence,

Is how life has always been,

And I can't seem to remember any other spin,

I'm told I'm a fighter,

And that I bounced out of this brighter,

Someone called me a light,

That dispelled the night,

Someone even called me a museum piece and claimed I made her laugh,

I'll own this last one, wholeheartedly on my behalf.

Morning Cuddles

Morning Cuddles with my "son"shine has become an unspoken golden ritual in our household ever since my boy was zero years old.

I'm an obsessed mother by the way. Can't get enough of my son. And I'm already planning his wedding - either on a beach or on a mountain. Did I mention he's 4.5 years old?

Every decision I take involves my child. Be it moving away from Bombay when his young father passed away, stepping out to work full-time and re-building our life from scratch. The last bit couldn't have been done without the support of my parents. 

I'd like to believe I'm a good mother, because I was raised by one herself. Infact she was more self sacrificing and more dutiful. I'm merely going with the flow of juggling work, raising my child and trying to have a semblance of a social life. 

It's not hard. It's what every 36 year old must strive to do, without hitting an early mid-life crisis. 

Coming back to our morning cuddles, I need it more than him. I breathe him in and thank God everyday, for blessing me with such a beautiful child. He loves me unconditionally (for the time being). I'll miss this devotion in just another 4-5 years. They grow up too soon. 

My mother gives me dire warnings everyday to seperate work from home. "Don't take out work frustrations at home. Keep your office inside your office. At home you're a mother and a daughter. Please behave like one" She's right as always.

It's hard, striking a work-life balance. It's a myth really. There's only work and life is lived on the weekends. This is the reality, without white washing it. Take it or leave it!

Our children keep us sane - most of the time. For the remaining time, let's rein in our tempers and try not to unleash our entire personalities into the world. It's too much for the person sitting opposite you, unless it's your best friend or a close colleague, who can give you a beating and keep you in check.

To all the women in my life - my mother, my bosses and all my lady colleagues - thank you and you're awesome! 

A Fluey Weekend

 

A Dolo induced weekend,

Is how my time is being spent,

Eat, sleep and repeat,

I can barely stand on my two feet,

A complete loss of control over the body,

I feel rather shoddy,

I wake up in a sweat,

And momentarily forget,

Whether I'm supposed to wake up,

Or grab another hot cup,

Of fluids and tablets,

Or go back into my bunny hole filled with imaginary rabbits,

I hardly feel like Alice,

My home feels far from a palace,

With the absence of my little pest,

He is the best,

But his presence would hardly give me any rest,

So I'm stuck inside a lonely fluey weekend,

I pray it soon comes to an end,

And I reach a triumphant bend,

One where my silly flu comes to an end.

Almost Five

 

Bathing an almost five year old on a working day is an utter test of patience. The filled up water in the bucket goes down the drain, pee-pee is done everywhere except inside the potty and toothpaste is always inside the sink and never on the toothbrush.

Step into my house before 8am on any given day and you'll find a hyper-active human chimp and a frazzled, sleep-deprived mother with uncombed hair and shades of either black or pink facepack on her face (in an attempt to look ten years younger, all in vain of course)

So basically even before school and office begins for the day, World War III, IV and V have been lived out and fought. The winner is always the chimp, with a poor, soaking wet and always late mother in some corner of the bathroom, cleaning out the debris of the morning bath. 

Breakfast is another story altogether. Less than half the meal goes inside his tummy and the remaining is thrown generously on the floor. "Ants don't exist mommy", explains the brat with a devilish twinkle in his eye and he continues with his antics, "Hoooiiyyya! There goes the cheese! One bite for me, one bite for the floor", "I'm so clever aren't I mommy", he grins.

A call goes to the doting grandmother on the days I work from home to complain about the apple of her eye. She just chuckles as I rant and rave and replies coolly, "So much fun! And he's just a child." 

Winner of hearts, that little devil. PTA meetings fly by with his teachers insisting, "Riaan is an angel. Such a pleasure to interact with."

Alright, I give up. Angel outside, devil inside, just like that Onida advertisement of the early 90s. Neighbours envy and owners pride. Although I don't own this chimpanzee, merely birthed him and I'm not proud of the mass destruction of my beautifully decorated house.

One day, he'll grow up. But when will that one day come, I wonder. Pray for me dear reader and pray for the souls of all tormented parents all over the world. More than world peace, I want peace inside my house. Too much to ask for? 

Two Years of Widowhood

 

Two years, since my world came crashing down in front of my eyes. Two years, since I forced re-start and started from scratch. Two years, since I've felt this deep void all around and inside me that I just can't get rid off or shake away. 

Captain America asked the Hulk how he manages to control his anger in one of the Avenger's series and he replies, "That's my secret Cap. I'm always angry". I'm Hulk in the real world, I'm always sad and that's my secret. 

Being sad is a strength and crying is the heart's way of releasing all the weakness inside you. So cry, cry and cry until there are no more tears left to shed. 

Keep all that sadness stuffed inside you in a lonely forgotten corner and it will burst like a pressure cooker or in my case, a hospitalization of three days thanks to breathlessness. That was my near death experience and I was scared sick for my child. I didn't want him to lose another parent. 

There are moments I still feel like that woman who was told in a filthy hospital in Bombay that "Raj is no more" and I fell to the floor, bawling. There are moments I still feel like that woman who was swatting away flies from her young husband's motionless body just before she pushed him into the fire. 

13 years with one man is no joke! His death broke me. And I'm still broken. There are parts of me that are gone forever. His death killed me too. 

But I strongly believe, he's my handsome, guardian angel in heaven and is watching over me forever. As cliched as it sounds, I think he's rooting for me and our son. He wants me to excel and has passed on his super agressive, competitive nature to me. 

A part of me will always be in love with that sweet, dimpled 21 year old boy I met in Bombay. Rest in peace poopie. I think I've got this (on most days). On other days, I have my bottle of Bailey's. 

No Fairy Tale Endings In Real Life

 

Death changes you. When one person dies, another is re-born.. the bereaved. There's another version that emerges that surprises even them. 

Let me just talk about myself. It was in that exact moment when I was saw my 35 year old husband's dead body lying in an impersonal corner of a dirty hospital, that something snapped inside me.

My first instinct was to shake the life out of him and scream, "Wake up, wake up", until I realised, he couldn't. He hardly looked dead to me. Not in that moment and not even the next day, when I rubbed ghee all over him and pushed him into the fire. He looked alive. So alive. His skin was shining, his face was radiant.. only his hands felt stiff and risen thanks to the rigour mortis that had kicked in.

I was hardly alive in those early months. I was dangerously flirting with the land of the dead. I couldn't let go of the love of my life whom I had met at 21, married at 27 and started a family with at 32. 

He was a good man, who was obsessed with his job. He died on the job. Infact, he was still clothed in his formal green chequered office shirt and grey pants, when I found him on the hospital stretcher.

I knew then, I had to die riding a bike or doing something much cooler than being a corporate slave! I will go out with a bang, whenever that happens, after I witness my only son married off with 100 fat babies. 

Until then, I'm here, I'm loud and I don't cry. Nah, just kidding, I howl! To think, that I had to turn into the sole bread-winner of my family is surreal. I always thought I'd have a fairy tale love story. I've read every single Mills and Boons novel in the world since I was ten years old. I've watched Beauty and the Beast 25 times as a four year old. My only ambition in life since I was 12, was to have a beach wedding, with the waves lapping on my wedding dress as I kissed the man of my dreams on the sea shore.

In real life, my late husband hated the beach and I don't see any prince charmings coming to rescue me. I am my own prince charming and my own knight in shining armour. 

There are no happy endings and there are no real love stories anywhere. My generation wants a good time over real commitment and runs away when you drop the "M" word.

So be it. I'm off to find the perfect BMW race-bike, perfect the art of riding and crash it once my son is old enough and doesn't need me anymore, so that he can light up a very stylish biker's dead body. 

Image source - https://images.app.goo.gl/bPnFYPwDD4YZ55i27

Memories

 

Memories from another day,

Fills my mind with disarray,

I question the laughter,

And everything that happened after,

Was any of it real,

The long drives behind the wheel,

The jokes that made you squeal,

Now I have to deal,

With a broken heart,

But i won't fall apart,

Instead, I'll create some art,

And force restart,

Why cry over you,

While you've already passed through,

Long ago and quite happily,

Almost like there's no heart inside your cavity.

Scattered Thoughts

 

It's been a while since I opened up my heart and just wrote. It's raining right now in Chennai and I figured, if the skies can open up and let it all out, it's time I did the same.. with my words.

Last year was all about survival and overcoming a terrible loss. This year i dedicate to living and to opening up my heart to new experiences.

I pray everyday. I visit the local temple once a month, every month and I accept people just as they are. Breathe in peace and breathe out anxiety.

The worst that had to happen, did. And I've made my peace with it. Raising a toddler, a street away from my parents is not too bad. Making my own meals every morning, is not too bad either.

Feelings are like water, you have to let it flow, or else you'll end up in the hospital, with a broken lung or two (I'm speaking just for myself of course).

I'm not sure if I'm still a grieving widow. Probably not. But I am scared, most of the time. I wonder if everyone I care about will just disappear or die abruptly. 

While my toddler has developed an extreme seperation anxiety, i have trust issues. I keep wondering what a person's true intent is. 

And I know not everyone is the same and not every situation is the same, nevertheless, my defence reflexes have gone up. I'm always ready for the worst case scenario and I'm always ready to eject myself out of a situation, however good or bad things are.

I'm trying, I'm really trying to let my guards down. I'm trying my best to be patient. Some days are filled with self doubt and anxiety and the others are filled with hope and a tiny voice in my head that says, "Just live, there's no better time than the present to throw yourself into raising a child and building a beautiful home"