Surviving the Screen: How I Traded My Late Husband’s Legacy of Overwork for Peace

I was 34 with a two-year-old when I lost my husband and partner of close to 13 years to overwork. It was a screechingly abrupt ending to a life I was piecing together brick by brick, like a Lego set. With him gone at the ridiculously young age of 35, I felt the very foundation of my life grow shaky. To the outside world, I seemed resilient; I threw myself back into the corporate world a mere four months after his passing. I could no longer sit at home undertaking freelance gigs. I took it upon myself to become both father and mother—a task I initially failed at miserably. 

At first, I behaved just like he had. I drowned myself in work, logging in at 2 AM and 3 AM for inconsequential tasks that could easily have been done during official office hours. In hindsight, the overwork numbed the intense pain of what felt like a deep betrayal. I felt cheated by my late husband, who had always prioritized work over our marriage, our son, and our home. I wondered why we had even gotten married in the first place if all he wanted to do was work and die. I was a "lock-and-key" wife, married to a high-flying management consultant who simply refused to slow down. I met his sleeping back on a few weekends, but for the most part, I was always home alone. I shuttled back and forth to the office, eventually carrying a massive baby bump with no husband at home. The loneliness crushed me, culminating in a complicated pregnancy that forced me onto bedrest by the sixth month. 

The point I am trying to make is that overwork does not impress me. I have witnessed a man live by his laptop and die by his laptop. And guess what happened when he died on the job? I received his laptop bag—minus the laptop. That is all he was to his Big 4 management consulting firm: a resource who won an important client for their organization. 

I still remember the last 24 hours he was alive. He shopped distractedly for shorts to wear at home at R City Mall, Ghatkopar, quickly rushed back, turned on his laptop, and continued to fine-tune a pitch presentation to win over an oil and gas company. I remember watching his tense face on that Sunday evening, still unable to shut down from work, and I sighed. He didn't take in the beautiful Powai sunset from our airy 10th-floor apartment; he barely even looked at our two-year-old boy that day. By the next evening at that exact same time, he was gone forever. 

I remember breaking down in front of his ex-boss and screaming, "Take me to him!" To my grief-stricken brain, he looked more alive and handsome than ever. It is a moment I will never forget—my handsome, young husband's sleeping face, with a very confused two-year-old being held above him. 

The next couple of dozen months were utter hell as I was forced to accept this new reality. Slowly and steadily, however, I learned that overwork is rubbish. Prioritizing your health and your family are the only two things that truly matter. I have always loved my work too—the only time I took a step back to freelance was when I wanted to have a baby—but I always prioritized home and family over my career, and I continue to do so today. 

I do not live by the laptop, and I do not log in beyond office hours. I am entirely unimpressed by those who overwork and consider working to be the only important part of their existence. My 7.5-year-old son, my health, my family, my friends, and my peace of mind are vastly more important than a career of 16 years and counting. My job is not my personality or my core identity. It is simply something I enjoy doing because I like a daily challenge. A new delivery or a shift in a deadline thrills me, but I will never let it kill me—not today, not tomorrow, and definitely not the day after. 

The disappointment I felt toward my late husband slowly turned to acceptance, and finally, to forgiveness. In forgiving him, I found my peace. And that is my story of handling grief.

Why I'm Stepping Away From Complex Friendships

Here goes yet another controversial opinion of mine into the world—one that will probably make an entire gender hate me—but here goes nothing: I’ve always been a man’s woman, more than a woman’s woman. 

These are the reasons why: Men don’t speak in riddles; everything is either black or white. Whatever is on their minds comes out quickly from their lips. They don’t hold grudges for years or guard past incidents like a Chamber of Secrets. While petty jealousies and constant comparisons exist everywhere, they are rarely as overt as they are in female circles. I have watched female friendships of many years turn sour for absolutely inconsequential, moronic reasons. 

I give up on trying to figure out the minds of my own gender. We are too complicated and just seem to love making life complex. I’m out! I absolutely do not want to be a party to it. You’re jealous? Great. Keep doing that. You want to compare your life to mine? By all means, go ahead—just do it without me in your life. 

I can feel it in my bones when a secure friendship turns sour, and frankly, I no longer want to stay. I become polite at best, but I am definitely no longer invested. Life is fragile and time is way too short for me to figure out why someone is competing with a woman who lost her husband five years ago. I can sense when you are counting the eggs in your basket versus mine, and I don't like it. 

What started this entire thought process at five o'clock this morning was staring at my anchor tattoo and reminiscing about my late grandfather. I am his legacy to this world. I live by his ideologies: mind your own business, put your head down, and work hard. He was quieter, of course—perhaps no one talks as much as my dad, my son, and me—but the rest of me is all him. I am a simple, genuine soul who speaks her heart out. I don’t have time for comparison games and petty jealousies. Please take them elsewhere.

The Myth of "Sleep When the Baby Sleeps" (From a Tired Mom of a T-Rex)

"Sleep when the baby sleeps" is definitely the most nonsensical advice given to mothers since time immemorial. My baby hasn't slept since 8 January 2019, and he hasn't let me sleep either. He is now seven and a half years old. My power naps and gorgeous weekend siestas are completely ruined by my little T-Rex, who jumps on me with full force, shakes me violently, and finally tries to stuff Lego pieces up my nose and ears. 

So no, ladies and gentlemen, "sleep when the baby sleeps" is the most factually incorrect advice ever passed down from one generation to the next. 

As I mentioned to someone yesterday, most people are cranky and emotionally dysregulated. Do you know how that happens? A lack of sleep. To emphasize this further, I said, "I am the drama if I don't sleep." I need my glorious seven to eight hours at night, along with the occasional 45-to-60-minute power nap during the weekends. 

To quote Iron Man: "You can take away my house, all my tricks and toys, but one thing you can't take away—I am Iron Man." 

Now, to reword this for me: "You can take away my power nap, and I'll turn into a sleepy, emotionally dysregulated menace. I'll snap at you, and you, and you!" 

Just let me sleep, my child! And children everywhere, allow your mothers to sleep. 

*Big, fat, sleep-deprived, sorrowful sigh.*

Not Everyone's Cup of Tea: Turning 40, Talking Loud, and Setting Shit on Fire

I loudly announced to my team this morning during our scrum call that I can't wait to turn 40 in the next six months. My bones are at their creakiest best, my child is at his crankiest, and my back is ready to give up on me any minute now. Yet, "I know what I bring to the table professionally and personally," I loudly declared with both fists up in the air. Everyone sniggered, myself included, and I promptly added, "Too much information, as usual."

I must admit, though, I wasn't this confident even five years ago. That is terrible timing to mention, because that is exactly when my life changed forever. Is it just me, or does every 40-year-old feel the same?

Something about living half your life, witnessing death, and achieving things you thought you never could—such as traveling internationally alone with your child—is probably what gave me this confidence. Or perhaps it's the solo lunch, movie, and shopping dates I've taken myself on. Or maybe it's just the fact that I can pull off any outfit, with or without a food belly.

I'm not exactly able to pinpoint what led to this feeling, but I just feel content with my weird, little, loud self. I've accepted myself with all my quirks, and I accept that not everyone is going to like me. To quote an Instagram caption I read the other day: "You don't have to be everyone's cup of tea. Be gasoline. Set shit on fire."

On that note, I don't even like tea—especially not green tea. I just pretend to like it because I'm middle-aged now and hope to burn off my decadent meals by sipping on it. I'm more of a filter coffee or black coffee drinker. The darker the better—just like my son's humor, which is so dark and twisted that I choke back either laughter or tears listening to him crack jokes.

Almost 40-year-old woman, out!

Sardines, Stage Fright, and Shuttling Home: A Very Indian Thursday

Every year that my child takes the stage, I have more stage fright than he does. My mind is plagued with anxiety and doubt. I constantly question: Will he trip and fall on stage? Will he freeze upon seeing the audience? Will the mic stop working exactly when he has to deliver his dialogue? Will he be so sweaty that he collapses from the heat? 

My fear is valid because that last scenario actually happened earlier this week while he was practicing on stage with his classmates and teachers. So, it was quite natural that I suffered a 24-hour migraine that started at 4:00 AM yesterday morning. My heart was pounding hard in my chest as I dropped him off at the green room and said goodbye. By the end of the evening, though, I sighed a huge sigh of relief. I waved, smiled, and made conversation with his teachers and the mothers of his little friends. 

Perhaps my extreme anxiety and sleep deprivation passed right into my car, because it broke down on the side of the road with my entire family inside. We tried our best to bring it back to life, but to no avail. Finally, we flagged down an auto-rickshaw and stuffed ourselves—two children and three adult women—inside the vehicle. In that moment, we would have put canned sardines and the Mumbai local train's ladies' compartment to shame! 

My very Indian mother managed to scandalise my very NRI nephew a minimum of 100 times during that 45-minute auto ride home, saying, "See Vivi, you're in the middle of a very Indian adventure. You will never forget this holiday of yours!" Being the complete sport that he is, he didn't utter a single complaint. He simply made room for all of us, especially his mother, whom he kept reassuring to sit comfortably. I felt so much pride and joy in that moment, seeing his protective instinct and affection toward his mother. That is one non-indifferent teenage boy with a ton of empathy! 

My son, on the other hand, nattered endlessly and cracked a dozen inappropriate jokes, with each of us taking turns to say, "Please keep quiet, Riaan." 

So, that was my Thursday morning, evening, and night for you. Whew! I'm exhausted just typing all of this out. Thank God it's Friday. I'm all set to wrap up work faster than The Flash today and finally get some sleep!

An Evening of Pride and Promise: Bala Vidya Mandir’s Annual Day

I think it is safe to say that every parent, grandparent, aunt, cousin, and uncle felt a deep sense of pride watching the little monkeys in our family turn into gentlemen and young women for one beautiful evening. Year after year, the annual day function serves as the culmination of the hard work of teachers, the chaotic running around by parents for costume coordination, and, finally, the dedication of our children to put up a show that will be remembered for an entire year—until the next one arrives. 

I know I am doing something right in the world when I see my child take the stage year after year, perfectly performing the part assigned by his diligent teachers. For that one evening, every family member gathered in the hall sings, dances, and claps along with every little one on stage. This country possesses such bright young talent. That is an incredible amount of potential stepping into the world, and I know Bala Vidya Mandir will mould them absolutely right as they transition into future leaders. 

My heartfelt gratitude goes out to every teacher, volunteer, and child for giving us yet another memorable Annual Day. I cannot wait for the next one!

High Stakes and Human Mistakes: Delivering Results as a Mother and a Professional

As a mother and a working professional, there is only one feeling I have from Monday through Sunday—extremely frazzled. Even then, as all working professionals and parents will quickly agree, there are only two aspects of my life that really matter: my son, who is my legacy to the world, and my work, a part of myself that I continuously put out there to contribute to my organisation and, ultimately, society at large. Everything else in between is just fluff. 

How good of a job am I doing as a mother, teammate, peer, and employee? Is my son satisfied with the amount of time I spend with him? Are my bosses happy? Are my peers—both juniors and seniors—able to learn something new from me every day? And am I learning something new from them? Frankly, these are the only things that matter in the grander scheme of things. 

I remember juggling my laptop over advertisement copies while nursing my son in the wee hours of the night, driving myself, him, and perhaps my then employer completely mad. But even as I reached the brink of insanity balancing work and a newborn baby, I ensured that I delivered everywhere. And that is all that matters, folks—delivery. Timely delivery that is accurate and without a single mistake. 

You cannot send organisation-wide emails to over 1,000 employees informing them about a town hall in a 7-star hotel without getting your facts right. And if you do (guilty as charged!), you quickly unsend that email, take ownership of your mistake, and keep moving forward. 

Corporate slave and devoted mommy, out! 

What did you learn today? I would love to know in the comments section below.

To My Safe Space and Sister from Another Mother

My dearest Oishee, 

I have completely lost track of the number of nonsensical voice notes I have sent you over the past two years, which you have always simply understood. You are the first and only person to ping me, whenever I am on leave. We are trauma-bonded, period-bonded, life-bonded, and just truly sisters from different mothers. 

Life without you around in a couple of months is incredibly hard to imagine. Whose brains and WhatsApp screen will I bombard now? I can already feel and see this sudden, looming vacuum once you leave. You are my survival kit and my ultimate safe space whenever my mind wants to flit. How exactly am I supposed to navigate daily life without sniggering and giggling by your side? 

Words are far too small to describe how much I am going to miss you. Rest assured, I will continue to bombard your WhatsApp screen with completely out-of-context messages, which I already know you will understand. 

This is not a goodbye, my Oishee. This is an "I am going to catch a flight to Hyderabad very soon and we are going to have that cocktail" letter. 

Love,

The mad person you have come to know as well as yourself, 

Your Gayatri

Back to the Cubicle: The End of an Era (and the Return of My Sanity!)

The days of remote and hybrid working have come to a full stop, and I've been told to come back to the office. The mom and daughter guilt kicked in hard as I broke the news to my son and my parents. And guess what their reaction was? Utter relief. My mother just grunted and said, "Please go to the office," and my 7-year-old's face lit up so bright he looked like a cross between a Bumblebee and a Cheshire Cat. I burst into laughter. Clearly, no one at home was going to miss me! 

So, off to work I go with my 10,000 multicoloured accessories, high-voltage chattering personality, and a post-lunch tiredness that is going to kick in so hard I'll definitely miss my bed. So that's that—the end of an era of one dreamy way of working. 

I can't say I was the biggest fan of remote working anyway, because I wasn't built to sit quietly at a desk and be hyper-productive. It was very unlike me! No, I've always loved in-office setups because I get to discuss everything and nothing under the sun with all and sundry. What a glorious feeling it is to meet human beings once again and chew their brains off. Ooh, and the sugary coffees—a 10-kilo weight gain, here I come! Bring on the office selfies, office gossip, long strolls post-lunch, and finding out the name of every single receptionist and security guard. 

Wheeeeeee! Life is looking mildly exciting again—like oregano on pepperoni pizza, extra peppers on pongal, and cardamom inside Mutton Biryani.

Moving Past the "Fat Thor" Era: A Fresh Start

Holiday weight, that dreaded stubborn belly fat, and the sudden 2-kilo weight gain that slaps you from simply sniffing a dark chocolate bar. I blame my big brother for looking like Thor from "Avengers: Endgame". He brings too many sweet liquor bottles, gigantic bars of chocolate, and dates of every variety. Evenings fly by in eating and overeating, talking and over-talking. 

No, I cannot look like fat Thor anymore. Instead, I am going to take his mom's advice just before he rushes back to the future with Rocket Raccoon. He hugs her and says, "I love you, Mom," and Frigga, his mom, replies, "I love you. And eat a salad!" right before he calls for his hammer, Mjolnir. 

"Yes, I'm still worthy too," I muttered this morning, quoting Thor again to my Gen Z trainer when she asked, "Are you walking and swimming every day?" The judgmental little thing immediately spotted my liquor, meat, and chocolate belly. 

This stops today! No more heavy food for me from this moment onwards—only smoothies and maybe a piece of dark chocolate. Okay, two, if I have to be realistic. 

"Fat Thor" out!

I've Got This Handled: A Journey Through Loss

Grief is nothing but a celebration of love. The amount I've spoken about my late husband in the past five years with friends—old and new—and family, of course, is endless. From Milo milkshakes to Tumi bags, to all our holidays and every restaurant he ever took me to in my life—everything has been written about, spoken about, and photographed so much that people around me are either tired, amused, or irritated. 

I can't help it though: a) I'm a chatterbox, and b) it was probably a good marriage/relationship, even though we had our share of fights. That one man made me realise I can love fiercely, intensely, and give it my all. All of me truly did love all of him, to quote John Legend. Either he brought out all that love from within me, or I was raised by a suffocatingly loving family—it's a combination of both I guess.

When I think of my late husband, I think of him with love and almost zero hate. In the past five years, I've forgiven him for abruptly dying on me and our son, and in that forgiveness, I've found peace. I wonder which stage of grief I'm in now—perhaps it's acceptance. I'm at peace with having a husband who passed five years ago; I no longer curse him when I have to take decisions alone for my family of two. 

Rest in peace, Poopie. I think I've got this handled—life and motherhood, I mean.

A Parent's Dual Mind

My 48-inch personal photographer had a fainting spell today,

It was enough to take my breath away,

His teacher assured me that he was his usual chatty self,

With a mouth that flaps too much for a little elf,

My brain immediately split in two,

Half at work, half at school, as the panic just grew and grew,

He bounced in at three as usual,

sounding a little too casual about his fall,

His baby ego also took a fall from his lack of body control. 

By evening, the entire day had taken its toll on his little mind,

He turned into a little demon—the screechiest kind,

My 48-inch personal photographer had a fainting spell today,

It was enough to take my breath away.

Post-Vacation Blues and the Laundry Mountain

A relaxing getaway is all well and good for the mind, body, and soul. However, what is not fine is the pile of laundry you bring back at the end of that getaway, which immediately undoes all that relaxation. Four piles of stinky clothes have been washed today from our recent beach vacay, and I am ready to just curl up in bed now and wake up after 100 years.

Of course, I am dreading the Monday morning grind, which is dancing uncomfortably close to my face. I am ready to reload on that holiday now—minus the pile of laundry afterwards. Massive, bittersweet sigh! Why do good things always come to an end? Why did our holiday have to end so fast? Why do we have to wear so many clothes and swimming costumes during the course of the aforementioned holiday?

I am as heartbroken as my 7.5-year-old now. Today definitely feels like the worst day of my life because, from tomorrow, we are both "going back to hell"—his words, which I would like to cut, copy, and paste. He is lying on my bed now with Tiger Balm all over his leg and a gloomy look on his face, gloomier than Doctor Doom, I can assure you.

I look happy on the outside as always (a deep-rooted childhood problem which has no solution, unfortunately), but I am so sad on the inside that I could probably cause volcanic eruptions along the Ring of Fire in the Pacific Ocean, Indonesia, and Iceland. So, that is that. Goodbye, happy vacation; hello, mountains of laundry that just do not seem to end. My washing machine probably wants to slap me now.

Sun, Sand, and Seafood: Our Blissful Escape to Poovar

Beautiful, green, and sultry Poovar is the perfect quick getaway with family if you love seafood, sun, sand, pristine seas, and boat rides. All you can do here is eat, sleep, do a mild amount of sightseeing, and repeat.

Our holiday is coming to a close in less than 24 hours, and my son and I are already feeling the Monday morning blues. We checked in at Isola Di Cocco, a charming Ayurvedic beach resort, late Thursday afternoon. We have been eating, swimming, and sleeping ever since we arrived. The weather makes you want to just snooze because it is burning hot outside.

We indulged in a lovely boat ride around the breezy island of Poovar on Day 2 and visited the stunning Aazimala Shiva Temple on Day 3. Now, it is almost time to head back home. Cue the sad music!

The staff at Isola Di Cocco are warm and friendly. The food is scrumptious, and the pool beckons you after every meal to melt away all those extra calories. I am going back home three kilos heavier in body, but three kilos lighter in spirit. I highly recommend Poovar and Isola Di Cocco for anyone looking for a quick getaway from the mundane Monday-through-Friday drill.

I have lost track of the number of glasses of sweet and salty lime soda I have had, along with Uncle John's ice cream and every variety of fried vegetarian and non-vegetarian delicacy. I am off to sleep now for an hour before my child knocks me on the head with his swimming goggles and drags me back to the pool. Goodnight, everyone! What bliss it is to enjoy heavy afternoon siestas after indulgent seafood meals.

Burp, snore, splash, repeat!

Endless Plates and Infinite Love: Welcome to My Family

My family shows love through food. The more you are fed, the more you are loved. Personally, I am not just loved; I am doted on and endlessly pampered, treated like the youngest even when the next generation sits right next to us, nibbling on all that gorgeous food.

Yesterday, I visited the house I grew up in. My uncle (Mohan uncle) and cousin (Swaroop chettan) had already left for the U.S. for the World Cup, but they left their presence behind in spirit—in the form of a mountain of gifts, food, and a dream cake chocolate tub. As I ate my way through the decadent spread of fish fry, prawn fry, chicken curry, fried rice, pappadam, and payasam, I probably shed an invisible half-tear. I pictured my cousin, his family, and my uncle sitting at the table, eating along with the rest of us.

However, the food was so spectacularly good that I had no time to feel sorry for them—or myself—for missing out on that shared time. Instead, I did exactly what my late grandparents trained me to do since I was four years old: eat like a pig. I truly wished I had two stomachs for breakfast and lunch yesterday.

My cousin, Sowmia, has turned out to be even more loving and suffocatingly hospitable than my late grandmother. She doesn't sit still or sit down to eat with the rest of us until everyone is fed and overfed, and until every last pappadam and puri reaches the table from the kitchen.

Welcome to my home and my family—where the food never ends, and the love is infinite. Yesterday afternoon, when I mentioned feeling lonely without a husband, my mother pointed to the army sitting around me and said, "You have all of us. You will never be alone.

The Confessions of a Workaholic: Why I Can't Stand the "Sabbatical Bro"

I'm probably going to get a lot of hate for writing this piece, but here goes nothing: I don't like people who are on perennial sabbaticals and have no major life goals to conquer and achieve. Before you hit the close button on this piece, hear me out.

I didn't take a sabbatical from work after I delivered my child, while nursing him during the wee hours of the morning, on my husband's death anniversary, on his birth anniversary, or even on the day we met when he was alive. Add to that, my 35-year-old husband dropped dead at work. It's safe to say, and I think it's been clearly established: I'm a bloody workaholic. It is not something I admit with shame or pride; I simply state hard facts. This is who I am.

I've rebelled against bosses and work cultures that don't fit in with my core ideologies. That being said, I'm grateful for the 16 years I've put in across various organisations, industries, and sectors. I am grateful and blessed to have worked with some of the sharpest minds across industries, and I still have a lot to learn and a lot to achieve. I don't want to retire at 60. I have wonderful uncles in my family to look up to who haven't stopped sailing and haven't retired from their merchant navy careers well into their 70s. (I'm talking about you, Aji maama—I'm sure you're reading this!)

So no, I simply hate people without goals who are sitting tight at home with zero aspirations for themselves. Stay-at-home mums are not included in this list; they have aspirations, and those are tied to their kids. I was raised by a strong stay-at-home mum, so I'm leaving this crowd aside when I state that I don't like people without goals.

The next category of people I don't like are the braggers. Five years of work experience, one unheard-of award somewhere, and suddenly they think they're Elon Musk. Out! Just get out of my face before I punch you on the nose and hand it to you to get stitched back up in an ENT ward. Just get out into the world and throw yourself hard at work.

Take your sabbaticals post-6 in the evening and run multiple side hustles. Financial freedom, regardless of gender, is priceless. It simply gives you peace of mind and buys you all the luxuries in the world. So why deny yourself that?

I am ready to give a TED talk now on the various categories of "sabbatical bros and sisters" I've met through the years. The PPT is in my head; I just need someone to push me out there, let me crack a bunch of offensive jokes, and then I can breathe in peace.

Workaholic out! Holiday mode on (but only for 4 days).

From Baby Whale to Waka Waka: My Post-Dessert Fitness Plan

What a time for Shakira to drop "Dai Dai", the official anthem for the 2026 FIFA World Cup, looking the way she does—smoking hot at 49! Hips that look like they can melt butter and a face that can make angels take off their robes along with their wings, saying, "Join us!" 

I repeat, what a time for Shakira to drop "Dai Dai" because I'm right in the middle of a mini family vacation, chomping on every variety of dessert, dates and junk food and looking like a baby whale. I sniff and put on 500 grams, another two sniffs and my weighing scale will probably break.

 

I'm so ashamed to look the way I do—a small podgy balloon—in the face of a very fit and shapely 49-year-old Shakira. Being a decade younger than her, I'm motivating myself to skip dinner for the rest of the week while thumping down half a jar of Nasi and Mee's Milo Tiramisu and one gigantic triangular piece of Toblerone. 

But from tomorrow, after I finish eating all these sugars, I will skip dinner and soon, in another decade, I will definitely look like Shakira. 

In her words, "You knew from the day you were born, That here, in this place, you belong, You've been this brave all along, What broke you once made you strong."

My Pillars of Strength: A Note of Gratitude

A moment of appreciation for this couple who have quietly stood by me as I fell apart and slowly pieced my life back together bit by bit—my big brother, Arjun, and my sister-in-law, Vandana. There have been countless moments where I have been irrational and griefy, and they have quietly just let me be. They are both experts at gauging my expressions and have held me up, literally and figuratively, either in words or action.

While the whole world sees a griefy widow, I think this couple experienced my heartbreak along with me. They just understand my need to breathe Starbucks air now and then, eat a Naturals ice cream, or just be dramatic whenever I choose to be. They see the gaping void in my life, which I try to fill with a mountain of work.

I am currently at a stage in my life where I am a chatty Preeti from Dil Se, all set to marry Amar, who is in love with a toxic, self-destructive, terrorist Meghna. But here is the catch: there is no Amar or Meghna in sight for me. I am happy to do the "Jiya Jale" dance on a boat all by myself, thank you very much—wet saree and all.

And before you ask, no, I still haven't figured out what "Munthiri muththoli chindhikko Vanjani varna chundhari vaavae Thaanginnakkath thakadhimiyaadum thanganilaavae hoi" stands for. I digress as always; if distraction had a face, I would be it. Blessed to have this wonderful couple in my life and all the giant bars of Toblerone they bring every year, along with sweet liquors and dates of exotic varieties.

Embracing the Cracks: The Art of Owning My Grief

I have been owning my grief since 2021, and I think I am pretty much killing it—especially the owning part. From Starbucks takeaway boxes to drink nights with friends and family, everything is a constant reminder of the life I once had.

I am my grief, and my grief is me. It is similar to the scene in The Avengers when Hulk confesses to Captain America seconds before stopping a giant flying monster with one punch: "That's my secret, Cap: I'm always angry." It is impossible to forget a habit of 13 years in just five. Time definitely heals—I can confirm this—but it does not make you forget.

I am cursed with the memory of an elephant (the kind found only in the deep rainforests of the Amazon, I presume) because I forget nothing. I still remember the scent and aroma of the food my grandmother fed me when I was four years old. Therefore, it is mission impossible for me to forget a life I spent 13 years trying to build.

Everything I am today—the multiple hair colour changes ranging from blue to purple to cherry purple, and the tattoos—is a reminder of the person I have become. I am still bright and sparkly on the outside, but more like a ceramic piece restored through Kintsugi (or Kintsukuroi). This centuries-old Japanese art form fixes broken pottery with a special lacquer dusted with powdered gold, silver, or platinum. Instead of hiding the cracks, this philosophy treats the breakage and repair as a beautiful part of the object's history. Please note: I am Hulk, and I am Kintsugi.

I am not sure how many humans openly admit to their flaws, but it is the first thing I do whenever I meet someone new. This is especially true if I like them and want to incorporate them into my life. It is best to lay out all the negatives first and observe whether they want to bolt and run or if they want to stay and uncover more dazzling bits of my personality—like my two-decade-old junk jewellery collection. 

The living are strange. They live as if they will live forever. I call the living "strange" because I have been both. I died the day my husband did, and I have taken multiple births since he passed, trying to make sense of the barrage of work disguised as school, office, and anything else that catches my fancy.

So yes, I have been owning my grief since 2021. I am probably killing it because I allow it to wash over me whenever it wants to, knowing the feeling will eventually pass on its own. That is the only way you can beat grief: you never truly can, so you simply have to accept it.

The Odyssey: A Cinematic Masterpiece That Hits Close to Home

You know what is worse than widowhood? Being a wife in waiting for two decades, similar to what Queen Penelope endured while waiting for Odysseus after the Trojan War. I could truly feel the lonely wife's pain, as well as the anxiety of her son, Telemachus, who yearns to know everything about a father he has never seen.

These characters connected deeply with me. I, too, am a wife without a husband. Unlike Penelope, however, I know he is never coming back. I also have a son who asks curious questions about a father he only vaguely remembers from when he was a two-year-old baby.

I could feel the pain of Odysseus as he tries his very best to save his crew from mythical monsters and angry gods, starting with the Lotus Eaters, the Sirens, and Scylla and Charybdis. After a decade of fighting at Troy, Odysseus faces another exhausting decade at sea, doing his best to get his crew home. He and his men anger the sea god, Poseidon, by blinding his son, the Cyclops Polyphemus. This enrages Poseidon, who ensures that Odysseus’s journey home is plagued with disasters.

The amount I missed my late grandfather as I watched this gorgeous Nolan wonder on-screen is hard to put into words. Had he been alive, I am pretty sure he would have looked me in the face, grunted, and said, "Rubbish. None of this exists."

From a queen's agony as she wonders if she is widowed and must remarry, to the anxiety of a son who wants to learn whether his father is alive, and finally to the husband who yearns to go back to his family while being stranded on Calypso’s island—where he is held by the nymph Calypso for seven years—I could feel all of their anxiety and pain for three hours.

The Odyssey is for anyone who is curious about Greek mythology, is a Nolan fan, or just wants to be enthralled by the wonder of larger-than-life storytelling. The Odyssey is an all-heart movie. Do not miss it.