Musicians

Musicians, that fascinating breed which managed to hold my attention for the longest time. I aspired to be one. I even learnt how to play the guitar just so that I could form a band and get my funk on! Unfortunately, my guitar sir abandoned me after a mere month, made excuses for not showing up and eventually cut my calls.

Being the 'never say never' person I am, I kept at it and began attending numerous underground metal gigs in Chennai at "Unwind Center". "Unwind Center" was a dark, dingy hole in the wall performance venue for the most obnoxious teenage boys from a myriad of random metal bands, along with their 10,000 million anorexic groupies. I tried hard to fit in by wearing black clothes, dark make-up and scary looking junk jewellery. Unfortunately, my roundness (I was 65 kilos back then) gave me away. 

A few years later I met a bunch of "humour metal band" boys who were super talented, humble, down to the earth and the exact opposite of being obnoxious. I found their behaviour rather puzzling. Were'nt they in a band? Where were their groupies? They introduced me to a world of underground metal in Mumbai. These folks looked scary with their gloom and doom metal acts on stage, but were extremely sweet and so approachable offstage!

These "humor metal band" boys opened my eyes to the world of music. They underwent hours of practice (jams, in their language) to perfect every act they pulled off on stage. They spent precious man-hours writing songs, recording them, making them into a full length album and finally selling them to a handful of "fans". 

For the longest time I was proud to be known as their friend. I tagged along with them everywhere. And now that I'm married to the guitarist of the above mentioned band, I see the turmoil in his soul for not being able to really pursue his musical dreams. 

It's time that this country recognized talent and actually paid that talent, HARD CASH. And I don't just speak for the music fraternity, I speak for all artists - painters, writers, poets. We demand recognition! Give it to us today or your future generation are going to be a bunch of unappreciative, artistically illiterate idiots. 

Stress Eating

Nothing beats stress better than a freshly fried bread pakoda and a piping hot samosa with spicy green chutney, from the local tapri and from railway platforms.

Rough day at work? Eat

Frustrated with life? Eat

Bored? Eat

Happy? Eat

Stress eating is your brain's way of telling you, "Screw you guys I'm going home". The more the work pressure, the more the quantity of junk food consumed. 

In school, I found solace in piping hot Chilli Chicken Pizzas from Chef Express (a hole in the wall pizza joint in my neighbourhood, back home in Chennai which created the most delish pizzas!). 

In college, I made friends with samosas and kachoris. 

At work, I find comfort in sugary cups of tea and coffee along with large quantities of chocolates.

Stress eating and the waistline ain't friends,

The brain however undergoes a cleanse,

One's soul cobwebs become a little less dense,

And there is the return of common sense

 THE END

If you've read this, thank you for your patience. If you've read it a little and ditched it mid-way, goodnight already! It's way past your bedtime.  

(Image Source : http://healthdrivenlife.com/how-to-overcome-emotional-eating/)

Siblings

Siblings, those scary older people whose bedrooms you're not allowed to enter. Siblings, those cool mysterious older creatures, whose every move you wanted to copy to the T. Siblings, those extra parents our parents gave us, specifically to baby-sit & scold us younger kids. 

I've had three! My immediate big brother & my first cousins who I always presumed were my own siblings. I could not distinguish between my mother & my aunt. In my head, I always had two mommies & our family was quite large. We all met during summer vacations & family holidays (which were very frequent back in the day.)

Being the youngest had it's advantages. One scream & all the parents would come running to whack the older sibling who refused to share his/her toy with me. One bite & I would have everyone's attention in a jiffy. And as we grew older I was showered with the most expensive gifts ranging from the latest mobile phones, iPods, watches, digicams, branded perfumes, I had it all, even before it hit the Indian market, all thanks to my siblings. 

Our family vacations have dried up. We don't meet so often anymore & we live in different parts of the globe. But knowing that they're all out there, leading comfortable lives, is a happy feeling. And hopefully we'll stick around for each other as the years roll by. 

"There's no other love like the love for a brother/sister. There's no other love like the love from a brother/sister." Terri Guillemets 

My Blue World

I've loved large bodies of water ever since I was two years old. Be it large puddles, a fish tank, a pond, the beautiful backwaters of Kerala, the sea, a swimming pool, you name it. I've wanted to dip myself in all of them. 

Swimming for me is therapeutic more than a form of exercise. I see it as my place of solitude, a place where I can wash away my sorrows & emerge stronger & wiser. Just for that one hour I forget who I am, where I'm from, what I do & just give in to that mass of water. I allow it to engulf me & drown me. 

I've been swimming in my apartment's pool for the past two years & I've made quite a few friends. The most recent of them have been a chirpy motor mouth middle-aged aunty, who is always happy to see me. Like most Indians her idea of friendship is to ask me the most intrusive of questions such as, "Do you have kids?"; "Why don't you have kids, are you not married?"; "Tell me your apartment block's exact alphabet & number" & so on. 

My heart goes out to this woman because I can see that she is making a genuine effort to learn how to swim. I see her splashing along with not one, but TWO floaters firmly attached to her bulging midriff. She waits eagerly for me at the shallow end as I finish a lap to throw a barrage of swimming related questions at me. "How do you breathe underwater?";"Oh! You don't breather underwater?!"; "Don't you get scared of the deep end?"; "Can you adjust my goggles for me?"; "What brand is your swimsuit?"; "Do you wear underwear inside your suit?" etc 

I don't have the heart to tell her that she is killing my water-buzz, my state of yogic trance & my 5 minutes of solitude. 

Any advice on how to get her to shut up, without being rude? 

Bullies

Remember those nasty kids who pulled your hair, called you names & made you miserable in general way back in school? They grew up & continue to exist in the corporate world. 

Bullies, those jealous, rotten tomatoes who've probably been bullied themselves as children. Bullies comes in all shapes & forms at work. It can be your boss, your colleague or that new kid who joined your team.

I witnessed a colleague of mine being bullied by an ex-boss of hers in the cafeteria today, for her attire. I was shocked at first & could not believe my eyes & ears. But there she was, a middle aged, bitter looking woman, with 2-3 chronies of hers cackling away as loud as ever & commenting endlessly about my colleague.

She was rattled at first but I told her to stay strong & take the b*%#h head on. My mind flashed back to that one reckless career decision I had made last year to join a random company just because they offered me a few peanuts more to my existing pay package & bumped up my designation. 

My ex-boss was gay & snappy. He made personal remarks about my clothes, my shoes & even about the organizations I had worked for in the past. I tolerated his nonsense for over a month & then called his bluff. I barged into his cabin sometime mid-week after a whole night of crying & told him to f*%k off. I threw in my resignation the same morning & walked out those doors a whole lot lighter. 

We work to acquire new skills & to rise up the corporate ladder. But most importantly, we work for our self respect & dignity. Anyone who snatches that from us, deserves no time & effort of ours. 

(Image Source : http://antibullyingblog.blogspot.in/2012/02/17-anti-bullying-pictures-for-classroom.html) 

Kapoor & Sons

A gem from Bollywood after the longest time, Kapoor & sons hits the nail on the head, without beating around the bush, sans the over the top cheesy K3G "it's all about loving your family" bhaashan. 

There's death, sibling rivalry, a hilarious grandfather, an unnecessary love interest & a cheating father. Most of us can relate to these characters within our own families. Rishi Kapoor as the perverted fun loving grandfather reminded me of my own grandfather minus the perversion. 

Ratna Pathak as the protective mother who clearly loves her older child more than the younger & even goes up to the extent of stealing the draft novel of the younger to give it to the older, is also something I could relate to. It's okay mom, I know you love your older child a little more, I've made my peace with it (I'll probably get whacked for writing this but it has to be said!) 

With picturesque Coonoor in the background, this movie was a frame by frame dream to watch. Kapoor & Sons is a delicious shot of nostalgia in an old dusty wine bottle that everyone must indulge in. 

And yes, it indeed is "all about loving your family" as Karan Johar has droned on for years & years. The extent to which we can go for the sake of our parents, grandparents & siblings can surprise us.

No family is perfect. We say mean things to each other, we fight, we patch up, we fight again but the bottom line is, when the shit hits the ceiling, no one can clean up your mess better than your family & no one can slap you back into reality better than your family. Hold on to them tight because you need them more than they need you. 

(Image Source : https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/9/9b/Kapoor_and_Sons_look.jpg)

Parallel Lives

A colleague of mine was describing a job interview of hers to me, which did'nt go as well as she had planned. She arrived 10 minutes late at the venue along with her French boyfriend & she was shown the door very rudely by an employee of the organization. 

She went on to write a sarcastic email to the said person mentioning "the great Indian hospitality" by a brand such as theirs in front of her better half among other things.

I went down memory lane as well when I heard her story and went on to narrate in detail a by-chance interview of mine, which happened 8 years ago with a well known newspaper in South India. A blog of mine had been published in the newspaper and I went down to their office to collect my prize money. Upon reaching their office, I was told by a kind uncle who sat at their front office that interviews were being conducted for new reporters. He encouraged me to go give it a shot. I hesitated at first and then figured, why not? So I went inside their office, stumbled upon a college senior of mine who was already working for them and waited alongside 2-3 other candidates.

After waiting for about half an hour, a snooty looking woman walked by in the tiniest black skirt I'd ever seen on a person, long pencil heels & bright red lipstick. (I had already formed a judgement in my head - I lived in Chennai & was fresh out of college, women wearing clothes like these were found only in dingy, badly lit bars in our city). 

I wondered how this "creature" could possibly be the editor of such a reputed newspaper. My answers to all her standard interview questions, were dodgy & full of arrogance. I really did'nt care about being hired after seeing her. "How much will you pay me?", I asked her snobbily. "Rs 20,000 to begin with" she replied. "Too little", I replied overconfidently. 

The same night I got a call back from the newspaper on my landline saying that I had been selected. I said no of course, being the wise-alec, know-it-all that I was back then. 

As I narrated this story to my colleague, she laughed and said "Just imagine if you had taken that offer. You probably would've been an editor today and people like me would've called you endlessly for my clients and I would've bitched about you and called you an up-tight South-Indian journalist" 

Looking back, I don't regret not taking that job offer but I do regret not being able to write-full time. Had I lived in an ideal world (read: fictional world) sans any responsibility, I would've been a hippy singer and a liberated writer. 

My dreams of being a liberated writer are being lived out in a very small way on this blog. Those singer dreams will probably never take off. 

(Image Source : https://www.pinterest.com/pin/189291990560854816/)

The Clanging Of A Million Souls

The clanging of a million souls - these words came alive in front of my eyes today as I took the 6.30 local from Elphinstone station. I'm slowly beginning to understand the madness that is the Mumbai locals. The city runs on it, I run on it. But I fail to understand why the ratio of the men's & the women's compartments are so wonky.

The number of catfights that could've been avoided, just by having more number of women's compartments are uncountable. The number of &#%$#@ gaalis my ears have gotten accustomed to, in the past 5 months inside these compartments, could've been avoided.

Coming back to my 6.30 local, it was slower than slow. It stopped between stations & the clanging of those steel rods which all the ladies hung on to so desperately were getting louder by the second. Handkerchiefs were coming out at lightening speed from each handbag to wipe away beads of sweat, lesser snacks were being munched on & no one was in the mood for happy conversations.

The mood was grim, 

The train was abrim, 

The lights were dim, 

The space was trim, 

It was hard to differentiate between each limb,

Brave were those souls who managed to hum a little hymn

(Image Source : http://s4.scoopwhoop.com/swet/amul/a25.jpg)

About the Seafood Wrap at Renaissance, Powai

Food has that hypnotic time capsule effect which takes us back to our childhoods. Be it a family function or an official event, the only thing that keeps me pumped through the whole jingbang is the food.

The husband & I took a stroll down his old college campus yesterday evening which led to a quiet dinner at the Renaissance, Powai. We ended up at their lake view cafe, browsed through their expansive buffet, glanced at our expansive bellies & decided to just order a simple ala carte meal. We settled for their Seafood wrap which promised to be rolled in a wheat paratha with a generous dose of coconut *insert big sounding gourmet words here* - you get the drift.

It arrived as expected in a visually appealing manner with the roll cut in half, accompanied by a green chutney dip & some onions fancily cut & decorated with tomato sauce. A generous helping of prawns, squid & Kariveppila filled my mouth with my very first bite of the wrap. The dark brown gravy took me back to my Ammumma's  house. I pictured her sitting next to me on our enormous wooden table, goading me on to eat more & more. 

Food, that magical thing which transports you back into time & space. 

Food, reliever of all sadness.

Food, the best thing about being alive! 

A Husband-less House

A husband-less house is cleaner, less chaotic & peaceful. It's also lonelier, sadder & without purpose. There's no one to be mad at, no one to pick silly fights with, no one to clean up after & no one to advice 24*7 on the trivialities of life. 

A husband-less house is like Aladdin without his Genie, Vikram without Betaal & Batman without Robin. What a pointless existence that is. I wait patiently for Thursdays, sometimes Fridays for my Chhota Chetan to return - the key mischief maker & bringer of half eaten White Chocolate Red Velvet cakes.

This week, aforementioned Genie/Betaal/Chetan could not make it back home. He is stuck with office duties & might return only on late Saturday evening. My mood began to sink from Thursday evening as I opened the doors to my empty house, after yet another grinding day of work. And now that the weekend is upon me, I feel completely lost.

How in the world am I supposed to kill 24 hours, without my CEO (Chief Entertainment Officer)?

(Image Source : http://www.amazon.com/Always-right-Right-ceramic-coffee/dp/B00N0B1PSM) 

People in Power

My idol worship mode switches on automatically, like a reflex action the minute I see strong, confident, well established women walk into a room. They bring with them the knowledge, the experience, the wisecracks & the occasional wink in the middle of the most serious discussions. The winks especially flabbergast me! I suppose the cockiness/arrogance/confidence (whatever you would like to term it) comes with years of slaving away & finally reaching the top. I guess they deserve to wink, infact they earned that wink! 

Ideally, that many years of experience must bring with it humility & a quiet aura, but it doesn't. With the tiny handful of years of experience I've had in working with senior people, I can tell you they are anything but nice. They're impatient, they WILL slap you around if you blink like a goldfish BUT the feeling of being around them & working with them is intoxicating. 

You begin to wonder how many more years of chakki peesing you have to do, to reach their level. After a mere 5 years I feel like a dead duck. I wonder how & from where these folks on top get the enthusiasm & the willpower to go on & on & on & onnnnn. Bless them & bless their spirits. If only they could rub off a wee bit of that enthusiasm onto us already tired "young" folks. 

(Image Source : http://siliconharborcommunications.com/2014/09/29/many-women-pr-theyre-better-men/) 

This Song

This song! The most haunting, goosebump inducing melody I've heard in a long time. If this song doesn't inspire you or give you that pumped up feeling, I don't know what else will. In many ways, it represents the melody of life.

We are all dirt bikers caught in the rough terrain of life. Falling hard, getting up, kicking butt, crying a little in between all that because there is only so much a person can fight, there is only so much a person can put on a brave face. Sometimes those wins bring with it much heartbreak and joy at the same time. It's a strange feeling. 

There is beauty in imperfection, there is beauty in failing, there is beauty in just letting go sometimes. Each fall makes us stronger, each wound makes us more immune. 

Here's to us & to this never ending fight for those bittersweet victories. Here's to our lives full of contradictions and confusions. May we emerge stronger & wiser in the midst of this beautiful mess.  

Mary, there's just something about Mary

Each job brings with it new challenges, new joys & new bosses. Bosses - those people who can either make your work life a breeze or absolute hell! I've been fortunate enough to have worked under some amazing bosses (and some not so amazing ones!). Some leave a mark in your life, some you quickly forget, move on & pray that your paths never cross again. Mary has been the former. 

Mary - that breath of fresh air who came into my life when my personal & professional life were all up in the air. I was newly married, in an alien city, with a boy who was never home AND I had no clue about the PR industry in said city. The first few months under Mary were tough. She pushed all my buttons, dropped me in strange waters & cheered on furiously for me when I emerged victorious after each dicey situation. She soon became more than a boss & a mentor. She became my protector (not just mine, the entire team's), an older sister & my 911 caller. 

Unhappy with work? Call Mary. Unhappy with life? Call Mary. Unhappy in general? CALL MARY ALREADY! 

Mary's last day at work was an emotional one. I felt like a chapter had painfully closed in my life. I couldn't digest the fact that she would cease to be my amazing boss. Office without Mary around didn't feel like office. She created a happy home for all of us & stood by us through thick & thin. She pushed us to our brink & gave us the confidence to do better & bigger things. "You will always be my babies. I will always keep an eye on you & ensure that you do well in your respective careers, because you deserve it. You are all bright sparks in your own ways.", she said with tears in her eyes.

Mary - you've spoilt us all. You've raised our bars & set our expectations way too high for how our ideal bosses should be like. We haven't found a replacement for you & we never will. 

I hope I can grow up to be just like you someday & create a happy homely office, for a bunch of hopelessly lost kids, who grow up to be fighters & successful professionals. 

Two years down

We've been married for two years today. The dutiful man that my husband is, he sent me the customary red roses with chocolates to work. (We've NEVER gifted each other chocolates & roses prior to getting married). Last year it was a heart shaped chocolate cake with red roses & 7 days prior to our anniversary a bouquet of pink roses were promptly delivered to work, much to the wonder of my colleagues. 

"How can YOU be married to a rockstar?!"

"You're so uncool man, almost aunty like"

"You don't even like metal!"

"8 years you've been together? Bechara insaan!"

"You didn't send him anything on your anniversary for the past two years?! Haww!"

"God bless his soul for jheloying you for so long"

...have been some of the kinder remarks thrown my way. In my defence - I was a very cool person at 21 & I have personally handcrafted whacky yet meaningful gifts & couriered it to him year on year during the eve of our kiddie anniversary - 13th June 2008. (We have two anniversaries. One where we decided our fate & the other where society decided it for us). So I think it's safe to presume that I've earned these grown up displays of subdued affection in the form of roses & chocolates. 

"How does 2 years of marriage & 8 years of being with the same man feel like?" asked a colleague. "Lonely", I replied. "But why?", she questioned bewildered. "For 27 years of my life I've lead a cocooned life at home with daddy & mom dropping me to college, work, watching movies like a maniac & shopping endlessly. And from that being thrown into a city obsessed only with work, making money & surviving in the toughest of rat races came as a shock - without a husband around mind you. His work makes him travel outside the city everyday & we meet only on the weekends."

"So how do you cope?", she asked. "I've adapted. I've become a stronger, less mollycoddled person. I've become the husband & the wife in our relationship. I'm kind to my bais who cook & clean for me & I'm an absolute nightmare for our corrupt Gunda-like society treasurer who tried to pocket 20 grand of ours."

Marriage, in my opinion makes people tougher, patient & more open to a completely different viewpoint & perspective towards life. Some we absorb & some we stubbornly refuse to adapt. As for love, it changes over time. 

I'd prefer a clean house & helping out with some basic household chores to be more romantic than a candle-light dinner in an overpriced restaurant. I'd prefer giving each other space (in our case, space is aplenty!) as opposed to being in each other's faces 24*7.

Marriage - it's not for the faint hearted! Take the plunge only if you are ready. 

In conclusion, I end with a lame joke (because I'm too lazy to conclude this piece in a better manner) - Marriage is spending the rest of your life with someone you want to kill & not doing it because you'd miss them. 

My 29th Birthday

29, the end of the glorious twenties. 

29, that age when your bones start getting rickety & places of your body which you didn't know existed, begin to hurt violently. 

29, that phase in your life when you decide to stick to a particular career path or not, decide to have babies or not & begin to ponder about "adult things" such as home loans & moving abroad & starting your own business. The weight of the world begins to rest on your shoulders & things get a little more complicated than which dress to wear for a friend's house party. 

29, the age to start worrying about wrinkles & how much weight you still have to lose or maintain to look half decent. 

29, that age when your metabolism begins to slow down & you cannot eat like a pig anymore. That extravagant dessert you had the previous night WILL come back to haunt you for 1-2 weeks minimum. 

29, that age when you can either decide to be a bully with your juniors at work or be a nice person. 

29, that age when people slowly begin to look up to you & begin to take you more seriously. 

29, that age when you become a crabby stubborn mule who doesn't want to listen to other people's opinions anymore (not even your Mom's). 

29, I'm trying hard to shrug it off as just another silly number that is here today, gone tomorrow. 

29! There's no escaping this wretched old age *Sigh* :'( 

Mumbai Locals

I have been petrified of these metal monsters ever since the day I first stepped foot inside one of them. I've been pushed, pulled, smashed, thrown out & robbed of my belongings on these overcrowded metal contraptions. I always failed to see what the big fuss was about these things. The locals swear by them & it is considered to be the lifeline of this mad city.

When I came to Mumbai in 2008 I was forced to take them to work everyday (which is WHY i left the city in the first place). Unfortunately I dont have the luxury to make those decisions anymore because I'm married to this city now. I am a Mumbaikar. I'm no longer considered a Mallu, a Chennaite or a half Bong - I am a Mumbaikar. The city does that to you. It absorbs you & forces you to change & become one of them. 

I tried my best to fight back, to retain my identity, to not take trains. It worked for 1.5 years, I stuck defiantly to autorickshaws, took up a job that was 12 kms close to home (Yes, close!). Distances don't matter here, the time of day when you choose to step out of home or out of office determines everything. If you leave home at 8.00am as opposed to 7.50am, you've had it. If you're a road commuter, beating traffic should be your only goal.

3 months ago I landed a job that is 30 kms from home. I couldn't say no to the offer & I found myself travelling 60kms back & forth on the roads for 4-5 hours everyday. I was burning out, I knew I couldn't do this for long. My new colleagues found me to be an absolute lunatic - either I was stinking rich or I was a complete psychopath. I was blowing up Rs 1000/- a day taking cabs back & forth. After about 2 months of taking cabs, a kind colleague who stayed in my neighbourhood forced me to take the train with her one evening. After much protesting I finally gave in. 

She taught me some simple tricks to tackle the train demon :

• Find a seat - anyhow
• If you can't find a seat, stand between the sitting aunties & ask all of them one by one, which station they would get down. Claim your seat, mark your territory & sit down the minute the aunty gets down
• Take share cabs & share autos - paying full fare for public transport such as cabs & autos are for losers

It's been a month since I've started taking trains & I feel liberated. The money & time I'm saving everyday on travel has made me extremely happy. Indulging in that one extra dress or shoe, no longer makes me feel guilty. 

Although I haven't started munching on chana dals or made "train friends" yet, I consider myself a train pro now. I'm no longer scared of the crowds, the shoving, the pushing & the pulling. Travelling to work has become a breeze - all thanks to the Mumbai locals. 

Home Sweet Home

Home, that safe haven which opens a flood gate of happy memories. Home, that happy cocoon which forces you to leave behind all the burdens of the world & become a child once again. Home, the big house with the cozy nooks & corners, where you spent hours with your grandparents doing inane things. 

Home for me is Trivandrum. Every road in the city holds a memory for me. The Ganapati kovil in the middle of heavily trafficked Kumarapuram road, where Appuppan did a special pooja for me every Friday, the road opposite the railway tracks where Appuppan banged his odd looking brown & white Fiat against a relative's car (said relative promptly came home & complained to ammumma), Shanghumugham beach & the temple next to it, Azad hotel, Piaco, Kalavara, the Sharjah juice center - the memories are endless.

I shed silent tears every time I enter Trivandrum because everything about the city reminds me of Appuppan. As the road slowly winds up to our house, I always wonder how Ammumma has managed to live alone for the past 12 years, in an absolutely remote & cut off part of the city. Our house is right on top of a hill. The view is magnificent, but the silence & the loneliness of living inside such a large house is a very huge price to pay. 

I've always felt guilty that I've never been able to go back to Trivandrum for work or studies post Appuppan's death. I always promised Ammumma that I would go back to her, but it never materialized. 

Born in Ernakulam, raised in Trivandrum & Chennai, married off to someone in Mumbai (who swears by his hometown, Dilli & brags endlessly about how great the capital is), I think it's safe to say I have multiple personalities. I wear my inherent Mallu hat in Kerala, I become a true blue Tamilian in Chennai & switch to a hardcore aggressive work obsessed machine in Mumbai. Each city holds a special place in my heart. Each city feels like home to me. But there is no place like Trivandrum - the city where Appuppan settled down post his retirement & ensured that the siblings & I had the most happiest childhoods. 

Christmas

Christmas is a lot of things for a lot of people. It's the most happy time of year with rum cakes, free flowing wines & Christmas cheer everywhere. For me, Christmas has always been a time when Santa never came home. I would deck up my Christmas tree every year & sit next to it for hours into the night on Christmas Eve & on Christmas Day waiting for Santa to drop a big shiny box with a red bow tied to it.

My parents would laugh & say "Santa doesn't exist Gayu. Go to sleep."; which would make my resolve even stronger to stay up all night & wait for him. Years went by & I still clung on to the hope of meeting Santa.

Zoom forward to Christmas of 2011, the entire family reunited at Trivandrum. My cousin was preggers & the baby was due, end of December. Being a pregnant woman is not an easy task. I still remember the helpless look on her face when we would all sit around her, crack jokes, laugh like hyenas & plan what to eat for our next meal, while she was stuck motionless & big bellied in her designated hospital room.

The doctor finally announced that the baby may arrive on 01-01-'11. Although we had all planned our Christmas holidays for the baby that year, the focus slowly but steadily, shifted from the child to food (It's a family problem. Food is our biggest distractor. Show us a plate of mutton biryani or beef chilli from Azad in the midst of a war with bloodshed & gun fights, we would without a moment of hesitation if I may add, choose the biryani & the beef)

We decided to go to the Leela in Kovalam for a breakfast buffet. We all woke up the next morning by 5AM to pay our respect to the food Gods. We drove all the way from our home in Kumarapuram to Kovalam, for close to 20 kms, in the freezing 6AM Trivandrum breeze. The wait, the sleep deprivation & the long drive was absolutely worth it, because the Leela property was stunning. Surrounded by cliffs & the Kovalam beach on all sides, the view was breath-taking. We were guided by the hotel staff to an outdoor, pool-facing restaurant with the view of a gorgeous beachy Trivandrum.

What followed next, was one of the seven deadly sins as listed by the Bible - shameless gluttony. We ate like we'd never seen food & over-stuffed our faces with every last dish on the buffet. "Eat Gayu, eat. We are counting on you to make this experience paisa vasool", goaded my brothers.

We stumbled out of the restaurant after an hour, in a deep food coma & with the news that the baby had finally arrived. We all rushed to the hospital to meet the bundle. My first glimpse of her was in my mother's hands. She was covered in white & was sleeping peacefully. Our baby! The first baby from the next generation! I was an aunt!

"Gayu, you came here as a little girl & now you're leaving as an old lady, an aunty.", teased my uncle. I realised then that maybe this is what Christmas cheer is all about. Babies, food OD & a crazy, happy, loud family. Santa can keep dilly-dallying his visit to me. I've made my peace with his ditching ways.

Of Samosas, College Nostalgia & Work OD

Post a nightmarish day of work, the bestie pings me on Whatsapp.

Bestie : Hello, do you remember me? Full off grid you are. Job & husband is all you know

Me : Guilt tripping bandh kar tu nautanki

Bestie : Once a month baat karne se aap chote nahi hojaogi madam

And we chat like that for close to 3 hours, until I finally reach home at 10pm. Yes, I suck at keeping in touch with people. I've been accused of this many times over by close friends & family.

She pings me again this evening (like a typical PR person, who follows up endlessly with clients & journalists) :

Bestie : So you stay alone when Raj is not in town? :-O

Me : I want a samosa. I've been dreaming of one ever since I left work at 7pm & all the way back home in the cab. I've called all the farsans near home, they've all stopped frying for the day :'(

Bestie : Do you remember Shirdi? 

Shirdi. Our favourite haunt back in the days, where we spent countless hours post college & even during college hours, to bunk lectures & hide from the prying eyes of nosey classmates & perenially pissed off nuns (I went to an all girls Christian/Catholic college)

Shirdi. A pokey hole in the wall, almost tapri-like place, inside a run-down building adjacent to college. The food was not great. But the laughs & the countless hours spent, over piping hot samosas & kachoris were priceless.

I'd do anything to go back to those carefree days, when our biggest problems were end-semester exams & pain in the ass bitchy classmates. (Life in an all girl's college is not hunky-dory. The cat fights are real! And the melodrama is always OTT.) 

To answer your concern (bestie), I haven't changed. I haven't forgotten you either. My 15 hour work day & 60km cab ride everyday have just made me fuzzy. 

Confessions Of A Workaholic PR Professional

Back to work after a 2 month hiatus – a little less than 2 months actually. From vegetating at home, lazy dips everyday in our apartment's pool to writing about things I care about, I had almost forgotten what it was like to be a work driven machine.

My first week of work hit me like a whirlwind, by the second week I almost felt like my machine self again.

New office colleague to me: I need an ambiance to write you know, I just can't write out of the blue.

Me to her: Leave the writing to me. I don’t need an ambience, I can even write from the gutter, if required.

And that’s when it hit me. I’d been selling my soul to the corporate machines for the past 5 years. I’d forgotten how to write from the heart, I wrote for the sake of writing. I wrote to pacify my clients, I wrote to sell their stories to the media.

I get slapped around 25,000 times a day from various audiences (& for the pettiest of reasons) – all those in the client servicing world & especially from the PR industry can feel my pain even as I type this sentence. I'm sure some of you are vigorously nodding along with me. We all have our own horror stories to share with each other - which makes this ride a little less painful. We always try & look at the bright side of things & try to find the humour in the worst situations. 

Hats off to all my bosses & to the veterans from the industry. I’m feeling fried after a mere 5 years. I don’t know how you do, what you do. Cheers to you, cheers to us & cheers to the PR world! We truly are firefighters, in every sense of the word.