We are extremely vocal about the inherent patriarchy of festivals like Karva Chauth, but we still celebrate Bhai Dooj. This is a strange dichotomy because both festivals are based on the same concept – that man is stronger than woman, who is always in need of protection.

Should I make a coconut milk strawberry mousse this Diwali? Or a soy chocolate semifreddo with a strawberry coulis? When my mother-in-law suggested besan ka laddoo and halwa, it seemed like such a radical idea.

Anushka Sharma sported some sindoor for her wedding reception and the woke brigade was upset. Now she has gone and done it yet again on Karva Chauth. But to sindoor or not to sindoor, is a woman’s choice.

Most Indian men don’t drink alcohol to discern the fruity bouquet of a robust wine or savour the long finish of a single malt. If they are pretending to do this, they are either trying to impress a woman or their boss. Indian men drink to get drunk.

“Why do you fast if it makes you so cranky,” my daughter asked. Really, why are women expected to fast, especially for the well-being of the patidev, who anyway fritters away this hard-won long life by watching cricket matches and silly political debates on television?

Much before the days of support groups for women, India had the “kitty party”. But the humble kitty party doesn’t get credit as an instrument of microfinance, even though the first TV in any home was probably bought from the money saved from a women’s kitty.

It’s become quite common to bump into a wannabe guru spouting gibberish disguised as deep insights about the universe. Inspired by the phenomenal success of holistic healers like Sadhguru and Baba Ramdev, they’re trying their luck at turning spirituality into a business.

Except for their height and education, nothing has really changed about my now grown-up kids. I think I might be the one to blame. I turned into that dreaded beast: the helicopter parent, who controlled their routine, and now my children depend on that control.

Indian restaurants and pubs have their own caste system. Firangs are the Brahmins of the restaurant world, and next in line are Silver Spoons – celebrities from the film industry. All the hospitality is reserved for them. At the bottom of the rung are single, young men, aka the Sad Stag Group.

It’s perfectly acceptable for a man to get broader as he ages. We’ve even coined a cute little name for the male, middle-aged spread: the dad bod. Then why isn’t there a corresponding mom bod? We can refer to them as MILJH... Mothers I’d Like To Just Hug.

I think not having a #MeToo story to tell is a great story by itself. It is a story of hope. It is validation of the fact that we can rely on at least a few good men and some of them are on our side.

Nobody deserves to celebrate Valentine’s Day more than the middle-class, middle-aged, muddle-headed woman. She got her everlasting love and parental approval, but sadly, all her ideas of romance are rooted in Bollywood from the ’90s.

Your kids won’t stay dumb and cute forever. They’ll soon figure out how terrible a student you were, and if you want to earn their respect you have to put in the work.

The moment I stepped into the branded salon, a Hrithik lookalike escorted me to a butter-soft reclining chair. He then lifted up strands of my hair, whipped out a camera, and took close-ups of my scalp with the seriousness of a doctor studying an MRI. I quickly scanned the area for his MBBS in Trichology.

Wedged between the career woman and the domestic goddess, is the Not-So-Supermom. The world admires women who fall neatly into those two categories but can be quite cruel when you don’t fit into either.

I tried it all, the leather outfits and the furry handcuffs. But my husband of 20 years preferred saris and my children tried to use the handcuffs to play chor-police.