Push the Ground, Pull yourself Up

Somewhere around the age of 56, I decided enough was enough. My knees were sending out distress signals—loud and clear—and I knew it was time to lighten the load.

I started simple: lose weight. Be kind to the knees. Move without sounding like a creaky door hinge.

What began as a weight loss mission soon morphed into something bigger. Somewhere along the way, I realized that just being lighter wasn’t the answer. I needed to be stronger. Not just in body, but everywhere else too.

Enter: weight training. Enter: discipline. Exit: casual excuses.

By early 2024, my routine was locked in. Office work wrapped up by 3:30 p.m., gym bag in hand, heading out like a woman on a mission. No lingering chats, no “five more minutes,” no late emails. Just the steady walk to the gym, the process, and my instructor, Ajay, waiting with that “today there are no shortcuts” look on his face.

That first year ended with a moment I won’t forget: lifting 100 kilograms off the ground. It wasn’t just the barbell that was heavy—it was the years of sitting, delaying, postponing, all bundled into that one lift.

Victory. Small fist pump. Slight limp out of the gym. Worth it.

For 2025, the goal is to lift 120 kilos. Will I get there? Maybe. Maybe not. But honestly, it’s no longer about the number. It’s about showing up for the process—sweaty, cranky, sore—and doing the work anyway.

What weight training taught me, in ways life hadn’t quite hammered home yet, is that success isn’t some grand, magical moment. It’s the boring, repetitive, almost annoying commitment to the fundamentals.

Take the deadlift. It looks simple—bend down, grab the bar, stand up. How hard can it be, right?

Turns out, very.

Deadlifting isn’t about yanking a bar up like you’re starting a stubborn lawnmower. It’s precision: centering yourself at the bar, planting your feet, fixing your gaze, taking a deep inhale like you’re about to dive into cold water. Arch the back—not too much, not too little. Fill your core with air until you feel like a human pressure cooker. Push the ground away with your legs, pull the bar toward you, and hope all the little moving parts inside you cooperate.

You don’t lift the barbell.

You lift Yourself

That’s when it hit me—this is life in a nutshell. Every project, every crisis, every damn Monday morning: same principles.

You have to center yourself. Breathe. Get the basics right before you even think of lifting the heavy stuff. You push the ground away with your legs—your base, your foundation—and pull the weight with your will.

There’s no substitute for that.

No fancy hack. No shortcut.

You either build the strength to lift your life, or you don’t.

And when you fail—and trust me, you will—it’s not because life was too heavy. It’s because the form and technique cracked somewhere.

When you deadlift wrong, your body tells you instantly. A tweak here, a pull there, and suddenly you’re googling “Can I live without a lower back?”

Life’s no different. Rush things, fake your stance, forget your core, and the damage is real.

Ajay keeps reminding me, in his delightfully annoying way: “It’s not about how much you lift. It’s about how you lift.”

And honestly, that one line deserves to be tattooed on every office wall, family WhatsApp group, and government policy.

Whether it’s a sumo deadlift (wider stance, shorter pull) or a rack pull (partial lift to focus on strength at the top), weight training breaks down big tasks into small, manageable parts. It’s about mastering where you are before you try going where you aren’t ready to be.

If that’s not life advice, I don’t know what is.

This discipline—the sheer boring beauty of it—has seeped into other parts of my life. I find myself breathing consciously before tough conversations. Centering myself before important meetings. Bracing my metaphorical core when things get unpredictable.

There’s a certain magic in knowing that you can carry your weight.

That your spine—real and metaphorical—can hold.

That you can ground yourself, push through, pull through, and stand up taller than when you started.

 

Of course, not every day is heroic. Some days the weights feel glued to the floor. Some days the bar feels like it has its own gravitational field.

Life, too, will have those days when just getting out of bed feels like trying to deadlift a small planet.

But the training teaches you:

You show up anyway.

You go through the form. You control what you can.

You pull. You push. You breathe. You stand.

Weight training hasn’t just made me physically stronger.

It has made me understand the deeper contract I have with myself: to carry my own weight, whatever it may be.

And to do it well. Not perfectly. But well enough to keep going, to keep lifting, to keep laughing through the sore muscles and the stubborn days.

The goal isn’t just lifting 120 kilos this year.

The goal is to keep lifting, period.

 

The Death We All Share – And the Betrayal We Didn’t See Coming

In early 2020, I watched my father die. I watched as life slipped out of someone I thought was untouchable. I didn’t just grieve—I boiled. At fate, at God, even at him. What gave him the right to leave me behind like that? I was angry, guilty, crushed. And I learned the hard way that grief is not something you get over—it’s something you get used to.

When a close friend lost his father last week, it all came flooding back. The hospital air, the silence, the helplessness. I didn’t need to say much. “I understand” was enough—because I did. You don’t truly understand loss until you’ve lived through it. That’s a brutal truth.

But I didn’t expect how this grief would connect to something much larger. Much darker.

Pahalgam.

Twenty-five tourists. Gunned down. Not for who they were or what they did—just because they were there. Innocents, killed on a vacation. That’s not just loss. That’s an execution. That’s contempt. That’s a statement: You don’t matter.

This time, the response wasn’t a script. The outrage felt real. Politicians didn’t play safe. Army officials didn’t mince words. Newsrooms echoed with fury, not just noise. For once, it wasn’t just optics. It was pain.

And yet—it still wasn’t enough.

Not because the reactions weren't fake but because the crime was deeper than murder. What happened in Pahalgam wasn’t just an attack on people. It was an attack on dignity. It was a punch in the face of every belief we’ve been raised with.

We were disrespected. As a people. As a nation.

Disrespect doesn’t bleed like death but leaves a deeper scar. Those who died weren’t just killed—they were humiliated. They weren’t just killed. They were mocked. One of the terrorists, when a desperate wife begged for mercy, told her, “Go ask Modi for help.” That wasn’t just a bullet—it was a message. A taunt. It turned the personal into the political. It turned every citizen’s belief in state protection into a sick joke. This wasn’t just a failure of security—it was humiliation. Not just of 25 people, but of 1.4 billion. Of the idea that our government, our leaders, our system would stand between us and a bullet. In that moment, it didn’t.

Betrayed by the belief that peace is possible. That faith in humanity, secularism, and tolerance was what died in that meadow.

And betrayal? It’s not a clean wound. It festers.

I remember, in 9th grade, giving a speech on Unity in Diversity. I said everything about secularism and tolerance and won second prize. But today, I remember that speech and feel nothing but anger. At the lie, I was taught to believe. At the pride, I was told to carry. What tolerance? What unity? Pahalgam has mocked every schoolbook chapter and Republic Day slogan we’ve ever clung to.

And here’s the part that stings the most: I don’t want to be tolerant anymore. Not if it means accepting this. Not if it means burying our people and lighting candles while the perpetrators vanish into the mountains.

I’m not calling for hate. I’m calling for truth. For honesty. For clarity. For the courage to say: this isn’t okay—and it never will be.

The 25 killed weren’t just victims. They were symbols of our trust. And that trust was spat on. They believed they were safe. They thought they were welcome. Instead, they were hunted. That’s not just violence—that’s contempt. That’s what every Indian should be raging about.

We’ve all felt betrayal—an abandonment, a lie, a promise broken. Pahalgam takes that private betrayal and makes it public. It makes it violent. It makes it national. And it reminds us: no, we’re not beyond this. We’re not immune. We’re exposed.

And what do we do in return? We process it like we process every tragedy. With shock. With hashtags. With shallow talk of resilience. But this isn’t resilience. This is numbness. This is defeat in slow motion.

I want more than justice. I want retribution. I want the message to be clear: this country is not soft. Not blind. And not willing to tolerate another inch of this cruelty disguised as ideology.

Because here’s the truth—when people are gunned down with that kind of arrogance, they’re not the only ones being targeted. Our silence is, too. Our dignity. Our flag. Our sense of who we are. This was not just an act of terror—it was a slap across the face of our national identity.

And we should be furious.

Not just once. Not just for a week. We should stay furious until the betrayal is answered. Until the disrespect is avenged. Until justice isn’t just an ideal but an act.

Because if we let this pass like the others, we are complicit. We are, in effect, saying we can be broken. We can be silenced. We can be disrespected—without consequence.

They mocked our faith in this country. They turned our trust into a punchline. “Go ask Modi for help,” they said—like our democracy was a joke, our government a ghost, our promises a scam. If that doesn’t light a fire under us, what will?

This wasn’t just murder. It was humiliation. And if that doesn’t enrage us into action, maybe we’ve already surrendered.

 

To the Doorstep, Not Beyond (and Please Stop Hovering Over Mine)

This morning I accompanied my niece to a workshop on entrepreneurship. She walked in with her notebook and nerves. I stayed outside with my book and my firm belief in boundaries.

Within minutes, I was approached by two well-meaning adults who looked at me as if I had forgotten my shoes or left the child in the parking lot.

“You’re not going in?”

“Wouldn’t she feel more confident with you beside her?”

I declined. First with a smile, then with the kind of practiced patience only a seasoned caregiver can manage.

What I didn’t say—but deeply wanted to—was this: She needs to build her own confidence, not borrow mine. And I need to know that when she walks into a room, she believes she belongs there without me having to hold her hand.

I’ll take her to the doorstep. But she steps in. She stumbles, asks questions, makes her own notes. She learns. Then she comes back and knows, without a doubt, that I’m here. Not in the room, but with her all the same.

Ironically, this workshop was on entrepreneurship—the art of taking initiative, managing risk, learning from failure, and creating value. And yet the behaviour of the outreach team hosting it was anything but entrepreneurial. There was no curiosity, no tolerance for alternative approaches, no openness to a different model of support.

Which got me thinking—parenting and caregiving might just be the most under-acknowledged form of entrepreneurship. A form where people need the quiet kind of support that makes people nervous. And when people are nervous, they judge.

It’s not new to me. I grew up watching my mother face it. She had a certain way of raising us—calm, reflective, not prone to panic or performative parenting. And she was judged for it constantly.

I remember her coming home, seething after a relative had given her unsolicited advice. “You should do this,” “Why aren’t you more strict?” or the dreaded, “If they were my kids…” She would vent for hours, then fall silent, reliving the indignity long after the words had passed.

She hated it—not just the advice, but the assumption behind it. That someone else had understood her children, her choices, better than she had. That they had permission to instruct her on how to mother.

Now, decades later, I feel that same fire rise when I’m politely cornered by someone else’s certainty about my way of caregiving.

Because here’s the thing: We parents/caregivers know how easily intent can be misunderstood. We’ve all had moments twisted, gestures misread, love mistaken for neglect or fuss mistaken for care. And yet, we turn around and do it to each other with remarkable efficiency.

And yet we cling to the idea of the “parenting community.”

In theory, it’s a noble idea. In practice, it often resembles an unlicensed AA group—except instead of alcohol, the addiction is control. We gather to confess our frustrations, share our latest failures, whisper our fears. And yes, there’s comfort in the chorus of “Same here,” “Mine too,” and “You’re not alone.”

But once that circle ends, we sometimes turn on each other—subtly, with raised eyebrows and veiled questions. A competition wrapped in empathy. You’re struggling? Me too—but look how well I’m handling it.

We’re desperate to know we’re not the only ones flailing—but equally desperate not to look like the one flailing the most.

It’s a curious contradiction. We crave solidarity, but often weaponize similarity. If my child throws a tantrum, and yours doesn’t, am I failing? If you hover, and I don’t, am I cold? If I stay outside the room and your instinct is to go in, must one of us be wrong?

Why is it so hard to allow another parent the benefit of context?

I don’t want to do to others what I saw done to my mother—or what’s been done to me. I want to step out of the judgment loop, the “I-know-best” carousel that seems to run endlessly in parenting circles.

I want to raise a child who questions everything—including me. Who doesn’t accept second hand opinions as fact. Who knows that curiosity isn’t disrespect, and debate isn’t rebellion.

Parenting, or being any kind of consistent adult presence in a child’s life, is a daily bet placed on a very long game. There’s no user manual, no clear ROI, and plenty of quiet failures. Every day brings the question: Did I do the right thing?

Many days, we don’t. Some days, we do. The failures are loud. The successes are whisper-quiet.

The toddler doesn’t say, Thank you for letting me scream for ten minutes without giving in.

The 10-year-old isn’t going to write you a note saying, Thanks for holding the line on screen time.

And the teenager? Well, if they acknowledge your existence without rolling their eyes, it’s practically a standing ovation.

Rebellion is the dominant dialect of youth. And as caregivers, we wait—often decades—before we hear the echo of our effort. If we’re lucky, we see the success not through their words, but their choices. We see it when they become kind. When they hold space for someone else. When they choose integrity over ease.

By then, we’ve usually become grandparents. Or ghosts.

Still, we try. And try again. Because we didn’t ask for the child. We asked for the relationship.

That’s what struck me most today—not just as someone who chose not to walk into that workshop, but as someone who chose to walk into my niece’s life.

I’m not her parent. I’m her aunt. I made the choice to be involved. I wasn’t asked. She didn’t sign a consent form. She’s dealing with my presence as much as I’m shaping it. That’s the strange beauty of caregiving—it’s built on a mutual unfolding. We don’t choose the person; we choose the bond. The meaning of that bond reveals itself over time.

And like all true entrepreneurship, it involves risk, effort, ambiguity, and the occasional sense of being in way over your head.

So no, I didn’t go into the workshop. I waited outside. She walked in on her own. She came out brighter, louder, full of questions. She crossed that space herself. But she knew exactly where I was.

Right where I said I’d be.

At the doorstep. Not beyond.

 

 

On the Edge of Myself

This is the third chakra workshop I've attended. By now, I thought I could recite the basics in my sleep. And yet, I keep hearing familiar things like they're new. The words haven't changed—but their meanings shift. Maybe I'm finally listening. Or maybe life has just worn me down to the point where the questions actually land.

Yesterday's focus was the root chakra. The one tied to safety, stability, and tribe—family, blood, and belonging. I was told to sit with the idea of presence. Not in a poetic, Instagram caption kind of way. Just Be in the moment. And from there, ask—Who am I?

It's a question that sounds abstract until it crashes into real life. And right now, my life is jam-packed. My sister's away, so I'm juggling care for my niece. Work is its usual hurricane. A close friend's father is slipping away. An ex-colleague has floated a consulting gig I should apparently be "perfect for." And somewhere in that chaos, I'm supposed to plan the interiors of a new house. Another friend is buzzing about his son's wedding—and in the same breath, calling me to vent about his 80-year-old mother, who decided to stand for four hours frying pooris precisely how she likes them. She collapsed from exhaustion, and Sanjay was stuck somewhere between panic, guilt, frustration, and the desperate need to take a breath. I was standing in my office, still holding the terrible cup of tea from the vending machine, fresh off a sharp, exhausting argument with my sales manager. My jaw was still clenched. My pulse hadn't slowed. And now I was trying to calm someone else down.

So there I was—one hand holding my mug, the other holding the phone—offering soothing words while my brain was still on fire—a banter of speeding words in a tornado of hurling moments.

Am I supposed to be grounded? In the moment? How? And where exactly am I supposed to be in this "moment"? They're all elbowing each other for space. Is it even possible to sit still in the middle of that? Or are we just cycling through our roles—caretaker, friend, professional, dreamer—without ever fully stepping out of any of them?

The other day, I had workers over at the new house: one contractor, four carpenters, a plumber, an electrician, and two drivers thrown in for good measure. All men. All marched through like they were prepping for a Mars landing. Measuring walls, tapping floors, opening cupboards, and announcing things like, "This will have to go," and "Madam, this floor planning is from another era."

I was nodding, asking questions, pretending to understand what "load-bearing" meant. Then, out of nowhere, the question—Who am I blindsided me. Not gently. It's more like an ambush. Borderline accusatory. 

Who was I in that room? The homeowner. The one with the budget. The final say. And I still felt like I'd wandered onto a film set and missed the script briefing.

So I did what anyone would do when existential dread meets electrical fittings: I breathed and said, "JUST just do what I'm asking you to do."

Not my most spiritual moment. But very much mine.

Strangely, all of this reminds me of when I was training for a marathon. My trainer—who I initially thought was a sadist in running shoes—insisted I run barefoot. Not to "connect with the earth" or anything romantic like that. Just to feel every step. "Rest your foot fully. Feel the ground with each stride. Every inch. Then move." It was agonizingly slow. I wanted speed. He wanted presence. One nano-step at a time.

It was like being ambushed by Victor Frankl mid-run.

It is the pause between inhale and exhale—that minuscule beat between breathing in and out. Like a lightning bolt, it reminded me of Frankl again—the space between stimulus and response. That invisible pause where choice lives.

If I believe in that pause—and try to notice it, even just once—does that count as being present? Or am I just dissecting the moment so much that I miss it entirely?

Honestly, I don't know. But it's forcing me to look closer at the "I" in all this. The one who is running, signing checks, planning house interiors, juggling emotions, and trying to track her breath.

The root chakra is supposed to be about stability. But maybe it's also about not falling apart mid-scene. Maybe it's learning to carry the chaos with a bit of humour, a little awareness, and the tiny hope that even in the blur, you're still somewhere in there—trying to land on your own two feet.

And maybe—just maybe—if I'd remembered the marathon, I could've placed my words like my feet and slowed down. Felt the floor. Said, "Yes, that floor plan is from another era," and take one grounded step at a time. But then again, that's the thing about wisdom. It always shows up just after the contractor leaves.

 

Instinct, Inheritance, and the Pause in Between

“My daughter gave birth last week,” Jyoti tells me, her eyes brimming. “It had to be a boy. But it’s a girl.”

She says it with the heartbreak of a mother expecting tragedy, not a grandmother celebrating life. I freeze. Not because I haven’t heard this sentiment before—but because it still lands like a slap.

This is Jyoti—my cook, my help, and a mother of two daughters. A woman who quietly pulled together 35 lakhs to get one of them married. Thirty-five lakhs!!! That’s years of grinding, saving, borrowing, and probably skipping things for herself. But all that still didn’t buy her the social currency she was hoping for: a grandson.

As if this wasn’t enough, she says that life decides to throw another weight at her.

Just weeks before the birth, her sister-in-law dies. And Jyoti’s husband is forced to pay for the funeral. Why? Because the sister’s husband—yes, the actual spouse of the deceased—believes it’s the brother’s duty to handle it. Not his. Because she was “his” sister. Because women, even in death, come with invoices. Apparently, being female means someone else always has to pay for you. You’re a burden at birth, an expense at marriage, and a liability even at your cremation.

This is the kind of logic that quietly shapes lives—especially women’s lives—across homes, classes, and generations.

I think of my mother and my aunt. Two women who don’t cry openly like Jyoti, but fight their own battles with as much pain—just tucked behind tight jaws and long silences. My mother, who told us we should be independent. Who held education like a sword in one hand and survival in the other. 

My aunt, who still demands and apologizes for wanting things for herself and does both with equal passion. It’s like her mind and heart are running in opposite directions—one charging forward, the other yanking her back by the collar. Watching her is like watching someone wrestle with invisible hands. She’s constantly negotiating with internal voices—some hers, some inherited, all loud.

Both are strong. But they are also caught in a quiet war—not with the world anymore, but with themselves.

There is what they feel.

There is what they were taught to feel.

And then there is what they’re only now, slowly, starting to feel—after years of reflection, rumination, regret.

It’s a strange and exhausting emotional triangle. One where the spontaneous collides with the socialized. Where instinct says I want more, but habit says be grateful. And somewhere in between, after enough sleepless nights and second-guessing, something real starts to break through.

That inner confrontation—between impulsive reactions, deep-rooted conditioning, and newly-formed self-awareness—can feel like an earthquake under your skin. A bewildering trilemma, as Erik Pevernagie puts it.

And that’s the thing about many women of their generation: they’re not just fighting patriarchy. They’re fighting their own internal wiring, built carefully by decades of society whispering (or shouting) what they should feel.

So no, it’s not always about rebellion. Sometimes, it’s about quiet disruption. Not the kind that makes headlines—but the kind that makes you pause at the sink, stare out the window, and finally admit: I wanted more than this. And I didn’t know I was allowed to.

My mother and aunt are strong. But they are also tired. Because they are constantly fighting. Fighting for voice. For respect. For space. For air. And above all, fighting their past. Every day. Like it’s a ghost that sits at the kitchen table with them, judging, doubting, reminding them of the women they were supposed to be but refused to become.

But here’s the thing: do we have to keep fighting the past?

What does it do to a woman to be in constant resistance mode? What does it do to her children to watch her always either defending herself or correcting the world?

There’s a cost to surviving. A fatigue that seeps into the next generation. We inherit not just our mothers’ ambitions, but also their trauma. Their anxiety. Their blueprint for “not this life.”

And what is that blueprint, really? Often, it’s a series of negations:

Not like my mother.

Not like my childhood.

Not like that silence.

But when you build a future only in opposition to the past, you’re not dreaming—you’re dodging. You’re not designing your life, you’re reacting to someone else’s.

So again: what do we pass on?

My niece, at 15, already knows something I took decades to learn. “If boys had periods,” she said one day, casually, “pads and tampons would be free. And we’d get a holiday every month.” No filter, no apology, Just pure clarity. 

But then I watch her mother—my sister—live out a very different reality. She wants to push back at work, to speak up when things aren’t fair. And sometimes she does. But more often, she sighs and says, “What’s the point? Nothing’s going to change.”

It frustrates me. I get angry. I start pushing—say something, demand better, fight back.

And then I wonder: how different am I from the very system I resist? The one that tells women how to behave. What to feel. What strength should look like. Am I just pushing a shinier version of control and calling it feminism?

She’s not failing the movement. She’s just tired. She’s just surviving. And she gets to decide what survival looks like for her.

Maybe the work now isn’t about insisting everyone fights the same way. Maybe it’s about making space for every woman to define her own fight. Her own wants. Her own worth.

We are what we remember, what we inherit, and what we challenge.

Jyoti’s tears. My mother’s resistance. My aunt’s exhaustion. My niece’s sass. My sister’s surrender. They’re all part of the same story. Women giving voice to disparity—across generations, across class, in kitchens and boardrooms and WhatsApp groups and whispers at 2am.

Some in grief. Some in fire. Some in punchlines. But always—always—in truth.

Change doesn’t always come roaring in. Sometimes it arrives in the quiet recognition that the mould we’re running from is still shaping us. And maybe the work now isn’t just to reject the past, but to reimagine what we build in its place.

So no—it didn’t have to be a boy.

It has to be a world where every girl is enough.

Where women can want more—without guilt.

Where strength isn’t measured in how loud we yell, but in how gently we allow each other to grow.

And maybe that’s how we move forward—not by erasing the past, but by refusing to be trapped in its logic.

Instinct, Inheritance, and the Pause in Between

FLAT(ly) Single-Minded: A Loan Odyssey

So, you’ve decided to apply for a bank loan. Congratulations! You’ve officially entered the world of endless paperwork, vague explanations, and polite but patronising smiles. And if you happen to be a woman? Well, buckle up because this ride has bonus features—like unsolicited financial advice, invisible barriers, and the delightful assumption that a man should probably handle this for you.

The Builder— the place where It All Begins. It all starts innocently enough. You want to build something—a house, a business, an empire. You talk to a builder. You ask about costs, timelines, and materials. And then, like clockwork, the moment arrives:

“Would you like to bring someone else along for the financial discussions?”

Not your husband specifically, no—nobody dares to be that obvious. But the preference is clear. A man would be better. A father, a brother, even a distant male cousin might do. Because why would a woman—two women, in fact—want to take on a loan by themselves?

Next is the bank manager to whom Marriage is The Ultimate Collateral. You step into the bank with documents, plans, and an optimistic heart. You’re prepared. You know what you want. You’ve read up on interest rates and repayment plans. But instead of a straightforward discussion, you get a slow, deliberate explanation of “how loans work” (as if this is your first brush with adulthood), a subtle but persistent sense of discomfort at your lack of male companionship, and then—the real kicker—the sudden discovery that two sisters cannot take a loan together.

Yes, you read that right. Two financially independent sisters, one a CEO of an IT company, the other a Director and Board Member, cannot jointly apply for a loan because that’s not how the system works.

A father and son? No problem.
A husband and wife? Of course.
A brother and sister? If the sister is financially dependent on the brother, sure.

But two women, standing shoulder to shoulder, as equals? That is a financial anomaly. So you sit there, trying to explain to the bank that you both have incomes, understand risk, and intend to repay the loan—like any other loan applicant. And then comes the next delightful question:

“But, ma’am, what if your husbands refuse to pay in the event of an eventuality?”

What if who refuses to pay?

Ah. Right. The assumption is baked in. If two women take a loan, surely their husbands (real, hypothetical, or entirely imaginary) must be considered part of the equation.

“We are not married.”

Silence. A polite but strained smile.

“Yes, ma’am. That is also the problem.”

At this point, you must ask what exactly the problem is.

Is it a gender thing? Probably. Because a man, whether single, married, or in a lifelong relationship with his own reflection, would never be asked this. Is it a societal expectation thing? Definitely. Because, as women, we are still expected to belong to someone—to have a husband, a legal guardian, or, at the very least, an emergency male representative on standby. Or is the bank simply scared of two independent women making financial decisions without an apparent male heir to inherit their assets and liabilities? Maybe that’s the real fear. Who will carry the financial lineage? Who will inherit the debt should one of us be struck by lightning or, more realistically, exhaustion from dealing with this nonsense? What if, as sisters, we forget who owns what? What if—brace yourself—we refuse to fight over it?

It’s terrifying. The very idea that two women could apply for a loan together without needing a man to bless the endeavour. The banking system simply wasn’t designed for this level of sisterhood.

And so, we find ourselves in a surreal conversation where the lack of a husband isn’t just a minor inconvenience—it’s a full-blown financial crisis. Because, in the eyes of the bank, to be married is to be sorted. A husband is financial security. A husband is risk mitigation. A husband is the answer to every uncomfortable question.

Dealing with our Bank Relationship Manager was a lesson in endurance. His job is to support you. And yet, every conversation feels like a test. He calls you ma’am a little too often, insists on explaining things you already understand, seems deeply puzzled by your financial independence, and assumes the final decision-maker is not you.

But at least you now understand the bank’s philosophy: Marriage = Problem Solved

You: I am financially stable.

Bank: Okay, but are you married?

You: I have a steady income.

Bank: That’s great, but do you have a husband?

You: I can pay back the loan.

Bank: Yes, but what if you suddenly—hypothetically—get married?

At this point, you wonder if they’re about to suggest finding a husband just to make the paperwork easier. Maybe that’s the ultimate financial hack—marry for a smoother banking experience.

And then, just when you think you’ve survived it all, a well-meaning friend, your boss, or that ever-helpful male colleague casually reminds you about that financial literacy program—specially designed for women, of course—the one you somehow missed. Despite running businesses, managing budgets, and navigating the labyrinth of loan applications, you need a seminar on “How to Handle Money Like a Responsible Adult (for Women Only).”

Have you ever met a man who mismanages his finances? Of course, you have. We all have. But somehow, nobody suggests that he go for training. No one pulls him aside to gently recommend a workshop on “How Not to Buy Useless Gadgets” or “A Beginner’s Guide to Budgeting Beyond Beer Money.” But for women? Oh, there’s a program for everything.

How to manage your finances. How to understand investments. How to budget better. It’s as if being a woman automatically means you need extra coaching, like a remedial class for the financially clueless. Meanwhile, in the same breath, banks will also assume that you must be the equivalent of a CFO because you’re independent, successful, and applying for a loan without a husband.

So which is it? Do I need remedial training, or am I supposed to know everything already? Because if all women need financial training, shouldn’t all men be CFOs? Seriously?

And amid all this, the constant, nagging self-doubt creeps in like an uninvited guest at a party. Should I have outsourced this? Am I capable? Is there some secret financial language that only men are born understanding? The mental gymnastics required to silence these thoughts is almost as exhausting as explaining, for the tenth time, that no, we do not have husbands co-signing our financial decisions. And so, here we are: two sisters, leaning on each other, determined to push through, armed with sheer willpower, sarcasm, and an unhealthy amount of wine.

Here’s the real question: Are we being too sensitive? Are we bad at understanding financial jargon? Or was the system never designed to see two women as equals to a man? Because let’s be honest—no one asks a man if his wife will cover his debts. No one assumes he needs permission to borrow money. No one struggles to process his loan because they can’t find the right category for “two independent men applying together.”

So maybe the problem isn’t that we don’t understand finances. Perhaps financial institutions don’t know how to process the fact that we do. And until that changes, every woman applying for a loan will need two things: a sharp mind and an even sharper sense of humour. Because if we don’t laugh, we might just scream.

 

Chithi and the Perpetual Inconvenience of Existence

It is one of life’s little certainties, like Chennai’s humidity - ever present, soul-crushing, skin burning, and impossible to escape -  that when Ranganayaki Krishnaswamy appears on the scene, doom is afoot. We all call her Chithi (meaning mom’s younger sister). Remember to pronounce it correctly. It is CHITHI. Not Cheenti (ant), not Chitthi (letter), not Cheatee… Do I need to explain that? You always ALWAYS, refer to her right! Unless you want to get wrangled in a conversational ambush that will make you feel like the British leaving Kabul – cold, battered, and questioning all your life choices. Let me tell you why!!!

There are aunts, and then there are Aunts—and my dear old Chithi belonged firmly in the latter category, the sort that makes her older siblings cringe, nephews and nieces shudder, and priests and well-known artists slink away under the sofa. In her head, she is one of the elite who has read and understood the scriptures, studied the art and craft of painting (most often painting the city red), and has the absolute understanding and solutions to all that is within the boundaries of what we terms as World Politics. The woman has a presence that can command armies, bend wills, and strike terror into the hearts of specialist doctors.

For twenty years now, my sister and I have been financially supporting Chithi, a state of affairs that was, as these things often are, very unnecessary BUT entirely inevitable and wholly inescapable.

Not that she is ungrateful, mind you. No, Chithi had long made it clear that her dependence on us was the greatest humiliation since the defeat of the Marathas at the third battle of Panipat, and yet any mild hint that she should live within her means is always treated as a direct assault on her dignity.

I have, through bitter experience, learned to maintain a healthy distance between myself and the catastrophe’s that hit her. But fate, as ever, had other plans.

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Let me tell you about the whole bizarre business that began a month back on a bright Wednesday morning, which, in my opinion, is too early in the week for any kind of life-altering crises. It’s too early in the day to reach for your brandy and too early in the week to consider falling ill. 

“Vijaya,” she announced over the telephone, in the sort of grim tone usually reserved for announcing the start of an Indo-Pak cricket match, “I am being evicted.”

“Evicted?” I said, nearly dropping my toast. “Since when?”

“I was informed three months ago.”

Three. Months.

“And you are telling us now?”

“I didn’t want to bother you,” she said in the lofty manner of someone who has been waiting specifically for the most inconvenient moment to bring it up.

“And yet, here we are, bothered.”

“It’s terrible, Vijaya,” she continued. “A woman of my standing, fair and courteous always thrown out like—like—”

“Really?”

She ignored me. “We must act swiftly. I refuse to live in a shoebox.” (A shoebox that she had been living in for close to a decade!!)

What followed was a frantic two-week sprint, in which my sister Vidya and I were dispatched like errand girls to secure a house suitable to her precise requirements—a task so Herculean that I felt that some sort of civic medal was definitely in order.

The final selection was met with a series of long inhalations and even longer exhalations clearly indicating  her supreme disapproval and a reluctant, “I suppose this will do. I don’t have much of a choice, do I”

Victory, or so I foolishly thought.

And then came the sigh.

“But why, Vijaya,” she lamented, “why am I still alive to suffer this indignity? No one also tries to understand me”

Defeat!

I also wonder why we were ever named Vijaya and Vidya. Neither us have in any and all of our altercations with Chithi emerged victorious or dealt with it intelligently. Defeat again! 

The Surgeon Gets Interviewed for His Own Job

Chithi had been in and out of hospitals, battling the sort of ailments that would have had the decency to finish off lesser mortals. Twice, she had defied medical statistics, much to the astonishment of her doctors and, I suspect, to the mild irritation of the Yamagupta himself.

It was during one such stay that she found herself in the hands of a top-notch specialist, a doctor whose name was prefixed by an alarming number of letters and titles. She looked at him with her most intimidating gaze. (The gaze was not intended, that is who Chithi is!)

“I will need you to walk me through the procedure, step by step.”

“Certainly, madam. The operation is a straightforward—”

“No, no,” she interrupted. “I need every detail. If I don’t approve of it, I shall not clear you for the surgery.”

Let us be clear. Chithi is a woman with no medical background. She definitely had occasionally dabbled with diagnosing herself on WebMD. With that dabbled experience, she wanted to clear the surgeon for a life-saving operation.

The man, to his credit, attempted reason.

“Madam, I assure you, I have performed this procedure hundreds of times.”

“Hundreds?” she repeated, eyes narrowing. “And how many of them have perished under your knife?”

At this point, I was fairly certain the doctor was considering walking into traffic.

The Funeral That Must Meet Her Standards

One might assume that a woman who regularly declares, “Why am I still alive?” would have no particular opinions about her eventual demise. One would be wrong.

“Vijaya,” she said one evening, her tone suggesting that a matter of national importance was about to be discussed.

“Yes, Chithi?”

“I have decided that my funeral must be conducted with a certain standard.”

My stumbled leg and stuttered tongue with difficulty found words, “You mean… your funeral that you constantly claim will never come soon enough?”

“Yes. There is nothing worse than a terrible send-off.”

She then proceeded to outline her vision: No cheap flowers, no wailing women and most importantly, a priest with proper diction. “Some of them rush through the prayers, Vijaya. I shall need to test him first.”

“You want to interview the priest?” I asked faintly.

“Well, if I don’t, who else will get it right?”

Truly, death would be her final inconvenience.

That was the last straw for me. I just had to get back home, and take the support of my dear friend – the Brandy and my very trustworthy Governess of Domestic Affairs of many years, Jeevika.  I slumped into my armchair and muttered, “Jeevika, tell me honestly. Is there any way to make Chithi see reason?”

Jeevika poured my evening spirit with her usual air of ‘I know it all’.

“Well, she said, “one does not make Chithi see reason. One merely survives Chithi.”

I sighed. “Jeevika, you are a wonder.”

“I agree, akka”!

Chithi, having somehow acquired intelligence on my conversations, summoned Jeevika for a meeting.

“You are a thinking woman, Jeevika,” she said. “Tell me, do you believe I am unreasonable?”

Jeevika with folded hands said. “I don’t think so Chithi.”

“Hmm. And yet, you have been advising Vijaya on how to handle me.”

“Merely offering perspective, Chithi.”

“Perspective.” She sniffed. “And what is your perspective, Jeevika?”

Jeevika bent her head and with manners that would put politeness to shame said, “I think  Chithi, that your standards are of the highest order. It is, of course, only natural that others may—on occasion—struggle to meet them.”

Chithi positively glowed.

“Vijaya could learn a thing or two from you,” she said.

I realized, with awe and terror, that Jeevika had let her win.

As we left, I turned to Jeevika.

“Jeevika,” I murmured, “one has to marvel at the sheer indestructibility of Chithi. At this point, she may be immortal.”

“Yes, I have often thought about it too”

I sighed. “Jeevika, get me my brandy will you?.”

And so, I accepted my fate. Some women inherit wealth. Some inherit power. I have inherited Chithi.