Witty Bean

I love winter. We don’t get snow in my part of California, but it still gets very cold. I own a snazzy collection of coats/fleece leggings and cashmere sweaters, so it is by far my favorite season. Plus, it is always fun to go four months without shaving your legs.  This morning is colder than usual. My breath is misting, there’s a fine layer of frost on the bedroom window and my Spinal column takes an extra minute to unfreeze before I can finally sit up. And then, slowly, everything falls apart. My neck hurts horribly (hello late 30s!), the toaster dies after burning one slice, my son has his 345th cold of the season. And I feel so, so blue.  “Don’t cry! Don’t cry! Don’t you dare cry,” I whisper to myself. A quick glance at the phone app confirms I’m likely PMSing, but that doesn’t make the sadness go away. I snap at the kids who are bickering and pour out my 3rd cup of coffee. The kids resume their whining, and I look outside the window at the neighbor’s yard. Yup, their

I watched the movie ‘Stree’ recently and loved every second. (For those who don’t know, Stree is a Bollywood movie about an evil spirit who abducts men after calling out their name seductively.) Horror and Comedy are my favorite genres, and as the credits rolled, a little idea popped into my head. You see, I fancy myself something of a prankster. So that same night, once the kids were asleep, I crouched under my bed and waited for my husband to retire for the day. And soon enough, he came, eyes glued to his little screen, watching some YouTube Video. A little later, I felt the familiar creak as he settled down on the bed. Patience is my forte, so I waited a minute more. Then I jangled a few bangles I’d kept ready for just this purpose (Much like Baden Powell, my motto is Be Prepared).  *Jangle Jangle Jangle*  The tinny sound of the YouTube Video paused. Now I had his attention. Then in my creepiest ‘Stree’  voice, I said: “Raghav,”. I heard him sit up. Silence. I rat

Manju had always been a rebel. At 6 years of age, she’d loudly refused to stop wearing her brother’s pants, insisting they were more comfortable for climbing up trees. At age 8, she’d kicked and screamed, when Baba suggested pulling her out of school to learn “feminine” skills like cooking and housework. She was a good athlete and a better student. And a constant source of concern to her parents. “One day Maa, you’ll see! I’ll get a big job. Then you can sit back and rest easy!” It was often futile to argue with Manju. From the corner of the house, Baba sighed as Maa hung up his work boots to dry. A poor family, sometimes dreams were all they could afford. So they said nothing. Nodded and sighed and worried about school fees. Manju worked evenings at the local market. She fetched endless cups of tea and cleaned up after the vendors. A paisa there, a rupee here. She kept adding them to her little tin box. One day, she found out they couldn’t afford school anymore. She was a rebel

1995. Winter drawing to a close. “Chal jaldi ! We’ll miss the train,”. Palka looked back at the station. A hundred different faces, except the one she hoped to see.  “Palka, yaar! The train is moving. Chalo bhi!”  A few more people climbing down the stairs. She spotted a pair of jean-clad legs. Her heart beat faster.  “Ok, I’m leaving! I don’t want to miss the exam. Tum baithe raho Romeo ke liye,”.  Not him. Dammit. Dammit. Palka didn’t notice her friend walk away in a huff. She paid no heed to the Juice Stall man eying her butt with open interest. She didn’t even see the vegetable vendors giving her curious looks as they settled down their laden baskets, hoping the next train would be empty. No, 16-year-old Palka stood half turned, in the middle of the crowd, focused on the broken steps of the busy station. Where could he be?  The Juice Stall man whistled a catchy tune, breaking her out of a reverie. Glaring at him, she fidgeted with

I put down the eye liner and studied my reflection in the mirror. Too much mascara? Grandma always told me I had the prettiest eyes. Smiling, I pulled my hair into a loose braid. Where was my lucky pebble? Oh there. Now I was ready. My parents were in the kitchen. I peeked at them, searching for the slightest trace of anger, that flicker of grief. But all I saw was two middle-aged people, with rather kind faces. Worried about their daughter, hoping she’ll be fine. “Avery, honey,” my mom began, “I know this is scary, but we’re with you. Every step of the way.”  “Yes, kiddo. Your mom and I will be in that waiting room the whole time. Dr. Matheson is the best. He’s even published a pape-” “Brian, don’t stress her out. Not on the day of the procedure,”. “Karen, I’m just giving her informatio -” “Shush, now. Let her breathe for a second.” Dad rolled his eyes, behind mom’s back. I smiled, terrified inside, but still thankful for the banter.  “Did you take yo

Grandpa (or Thatha as I called him) was a very huge presence in my life. He was this skinny, beanpole of a man, full of wit and laughter. Self made, he came from poverty and settled down in Bombay with Paati (grandma), back when The Union Jack flew proudly over most buildings. He worked for a large National company and together; they raised 2 beautiful daughters with grace and humor. My childhood is peppered with memories of him cooking for us with grandma yelling out directions, regaling us with bedtime stories in that intense voice (he condensed the entire Ramayana in 10 minutes, without missing a single important point!), playing lazy afternoon games of chase. He was one of my first friends, evolving from play partner to the person who taught me all about grammar and the Oxford Comma. I lost my Paati at that tender age when childhood is slipping away and my brain was at the mercy of puberty. I was sad, shocked and mostly furious because she had baked me my favorite

Trick or treat was almost over. Even the stragglers and the teenagers had done their rounds.  And we were late. SO LATE! I was worried . I had been looking forward to tonight for a long time. The colorful costumes, the shiny faces as kids went door to door.  I’d missed all that. Because we were late. As we walked on the dark, empty street towards the first house, I glanced at my sister. She looked furious. I laid a hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off. A few yards away, our parents followed, with the practiced ease of someone who’s done this a million times before. Ah Good. The first house. Climbing up the stairs, we pounded on the door.  I flung my head back and yelled. “Trick or Treat!” I saw movement behind the front windows. There was someone inside. But no one came to the door. We knocked and yelled again but the door stayed shut. My sister stomped her feet and cried out. Mom beckoned us from the bottom of the steps. No worries, we’ll try again a

The bunker door stayed open all morning and afternoon. They had a lot of stuff to carry in - food, clothing, medicines. And those were the basics. Their little community had expanded since last year which meant they had more help with the move. But it also meant more mouths to feed. All these thoughts ran through Kavi’s mind as she ran a finger down her checklist. As the leader of their community, she had a million little things to do. Oh, had someone remembered the Vitamin D lamps? They would not last the winter underground without some form of sunlight. And what about the movie reels? The books? Nothing in and Nothing out. That was their motto. Once locked inside, they had no way of coming out for 3 whole months. Not that they would want to. A million little things left to do. Sighing, she got up and walked to the door. Outside, the a weak sun shone, as more people walked towards the bunker, carrying odds and ends. After 7 glorious years of normalcy, they’d all gotten complacen

I crouched under the car and held my breath. Shit. Shit. Shit. Had they seen me?  I sniffed, testing the air for their odor, but couldn’t pick up anything above the aroma of rotting waste. My machete waited beside me, an old and trusted friend. Breathe slower, I warned myself. You cannot afford to get dehydrated again. Close to 5 minutes passed before I heard them. Soft, shuffling footsteps. I placed the machete carefully on the floor and peeked under the car. I spotted the first one a few rows away. And then a second. And a third!  I sat up and cursed. It seemed to be one man, one woman. And a child. Shit. SHIT! I hated killing kids.  But like my mom used to say, “If it is you vs. them, Always choose yourself!” I grabbed my weapon and waited. Didn’t matter anymore if I could smell them. They would find me soon enough. And they would come. Just like I expected, the footsteps got closer. I’d killed close to a 100, but it still got me every time. Something about ta