Witty Bean

My Paati (paternal grandmother) was a wonderful storyteller. She had a crisp vocabulary and a genuine knack for engaging story-lines. Her tales were delightful, peppered throughout with excellent wit . She told us stories of all genres - horror, suspense, humor, drama. Some ideas came from books she had read as a child, but most of what she told was from her rich imagination. As kids, we'd gather around her and beg her to keep talking, way past our collective bedtimes.  I always imagined that every writer should be able to tell a good story. Not on paper, but to a live audience. Regale them, make them gasp at all the right moments; the tale ebbing and flowing with a life of its own. Soon the storyteller disappears but no one notices, because they are immersed, blissful in that make-believe world. And when the story ended -stunned silence! Slightly disoriented, the audience should look at each other and smile foolishly, the echoes of the final words still ringing in their ear

It’s past midnight. You’re in bed with your thoughts.   Limbs achy and heart heavy with worries.   Of course, you feel that way, you’re a mother.   You wish you had someone to talk to. Someone to breathe in sync with. Someone who’ll nod at the right places and tell you, you’re doing your best. Your husband is snoring away, the kids are sleeping and no one awake for miles around. You contemplate calling your mother/sister/bestie. But you don’t. You just lie there in bed, feeling small and lonely and not sure why everything hurts so damn much. But you’re actually forgetting someone who has been there all along. She’s watching, listening, making sure you’re still breathing. She loves you more than anyone else, even though she never tells you that. She’s your staunchest ally but can also feel like your worst enemy.   Talk to her. Tell her you’re scared. Show her you’re hurt. She’ll hug you. Maybe yell at you a bit. Even completely distract you and talk about Ranveer Singh’s abs i

I’m talking to you because I heard the wind whispering in the snow Let me tell you about the scariest man The scariest man I know. He wasn’t the monster under my bed. Or the shadow by the closet door He wasn’t the creep who felt me up He wasn’t the corpse on the floor. He wasn’t the stranger who stalked me Nor the who looked deranged He was the man who kissed me hard And then just like that, he changed. He put his hand behind his back And asked me to be his wife The glint I saw with my shining eyes Was the glint of his butcher knife. He became the man who stabbed me twice Then he laid me down to die I begged and bled hot tears of pain But he couldn’t look me in the eye. He dug a hole in the stained ground By rote like he’d done this before The last thing I saw was a pocket of sky And then I saw no more. I waited alone, under the dark mud In my new home that wasn’t mine

*Cough cough*. I keep typing. *sniff  sniff .  ehkkhu   kehkkhu . . kehkuu *  The guttural coughing sounds are getting louder. I smile inwardly and continue looking at my laptop screen.  *COUGH! EHKKHU KEHKKHU. COUGH!* I stop typing. Look over my screen. "Are you ok love?" From the recesses of the bed, muffled under a few thousand blankets, a tinny voice comes. "I don't feel too good".  " Aw , baby. Do you want some warm water with honey?" No response. Just sniffling noises. Then a hoarse "No." "Ok, how about some creamy tomato soup? You love tomato soup!" "No, I don't want soup. Tummy hurts now."  "Look you got to eat something! An empty tummy will make you feel worse. You know that." Silence. Then more (theatrical) coughing. "Ok, maybe a bit of  soup?" "All right, love. You rest now. I'll go get you some soup." I get up and stretch. Feel my forehead. Yup, s

It’s 1 pm. The 3-year-old little girl refuses to nap. She proclaims she’s isn’t tired (while yawning), she insists that she has to “work” (while digging her nose) and she scampers away leaving a trail of toys in her wake. Ok fine, I say to myself. She doesn’t really need to sleep. A different part of my brain wants to slap me hard. As a reminder of what usually happens to me  at 5 pm when she skips her naps (hint: it rhymes with “Boeing frazy”) A few suspiciously quiet minutes later,  a squawk emanates from the playroom. “Ammammammammma look what I did!” I rush in and see that  she’s scribbled over the wall with a black marker. “Look Amma! I drew you a cow”!   I don’t have the heart to tell her little face that the “cow” looks like a deranged monster that would rip your eyeballs out given a chance. Oh, and it’s also carrying a fork  for some reason . “It’s so well done, sweetie,” I lie. And now that the compliment has been paid , and her highness appeased, I decide to  mak

"It will be ok. I will not compare. It will be ok. I will not compare". I close my eyes and mutter this repeatedly. It almost becomes a prayer. Repeat the mantra 101 times and your wish will be granted .   Nothing of the sort happens. There’s really no magical power to my words because an hour later, I find myself caring and comparing, thank you very much.    See, we’re at the beach. We’ve been here a million times. We possibly have walked on every grain of sand here. We’ve likely had our food stolen by every seagull with a good business eye. This is supposed to be our happy place. The place where we come to get away from everything else. Happy, red-faced kids run around us, screeching as they dip their toes in the cold ocean. This beautiful beach, just begging to be enjoyed and captioned on Instagram. Since this isn’t PerfectWorld where I’m rocking a stunning bikini and a taut tummy, nothing close to perfect happens. I’m wearing my old drab swimsuit. One of my b