Witty Bean

I have always been a wuss around creepy crawlies. Insects of all manner and snakes. Big problem for me. In fact, as a teenager in Mumbai, I often walked past snake charmers and their kind - mostly on Railway bridges and near temples. I took a wide detour every time I spotted a scaly head bobbing outside that wicker basket. To overcome my fear, I befriended a few of the snake charmers and much to my dismay, one of them invited me to touch her snake. I didn’t want to seem stupid. One shaky finger on the reptile and I promptly regretted everything. From then on, I have been a vocal opponent of all things slithering and I have often been accused of being rather a bore on the subject. The other night, I had finished watching a rather gory episode of the Walking Dead. Gut and brains everywhere and much bashing of zombie heads. Usually I sleep like a fat baby after my nightly zombie dose, but that night I had this intense nightmare. (You know how dreams are trippy? One minute you’re fli

“God gives special children to special parents,” Or “you were given an autistic son for a reason. I could never do what you do,”. I’ve heard versions of these over the years. And it grates every time.  The assumptions are that 1: Special needs children are a burden/impossibly difficult to raise. And 2: Somehow God looked at me, my anxiety and impressive lack of patience and said, “heck yeah, lets give her an autistic child”. Kids are kids are kids. Whether they have special needs or are typically developing, it is a lot of work to raise a child. Feeding, potty training, teaching them everything from wiping their noses to mastering basic arithmetic. There’s a million ways you can and will screw up. Even if you’re raising perfect, little robots with pristine behavior, there’ll still be days you’ll forget to plug them in overnight for charging.  And the extra work and time involved in raising a child on the spectrum? It ain’t easy. I mess up gloriously with him every single da

Imagine looking into a crystal ball. Your life laid out for you between the murky clouds of white smoke. What do you think you will see?  In 5 years? 10? Will you be happier? Sadder? Well adjusted to your own set of challenges? Flourishing as a career woman or thriving as a mother? Maybe even both? As a preteen,   I was often drawn   to books about palmistry. Convinced myself that if I read them, I would be proficient enough to predict and even control my future. I could expect problems before they happen, fix bumps in the road before I careened left. In fact, I was so enthralled by the allure of prophecy; it surprised me that more people weren’t doing it. After devouring one rather convincing palmistry tome, I declared myself ready.   I   grabbed every hand I could find, confident in my skill and ability to change futures.   I   told my uncle he was likely to have 2 wives;   I   reassured the maid she would have more children and I even   tearfully   informed my grandpa he had an  

If you asked my college classmates to describe me, they might throw around phrases like - “above average” or “reasonably smart”. The honest ones might even draw your attention to my obsessive need to impress my lecturers. I was a studious first bencher, with my Reynolds pen and an open notebook, ready to transcribe every breath out of the professor’s mouth. Once, in the middle of a rather fascinating anatomy lecture, I remember I got a chit passed down from a friendly soul, ten benches behind. My idiotic heart thought it was a love note. Breathless, I opened it and read “Aur mundi hilaayegi, toh ek din gir jaayega (If you nod anymore, your head will fall off)”. So in a nutshell, teachers’ pet and people- pleaser extraordinaire. That was Pavi, first year MBBS student. When I got to my second year, we had new subjects. And one of them was Microbiology. You know the feeling you get when you’re enjoying a hot plate of biryani and you bite into a hard elaichi piece? That’s how I felt a

The morning breeze wafted through the sun-dappled kitchen. A few dust motes twirled giddily before coming to rest on the worn floor. The room was large, a few feet shy of enormous. Every corner of the room- every nook and every cranny was utilized . This was a space where memories had been made , where laughter had been served , with a side of mischief. Right there by the ancient fridge, Mohana's granddaughter, Mini had taken her first steps. Behind the ugly-brown sideboard, Mini had spoken her first sentence and then 19 years later rehearsed her graduation speech. Grandma and girl had played many a game of chase around the rickety dining table and then later on had sat at those same mismatched chairs and talked about science and history and boys.  The kitchen waiting patiently like an old friend, listening carefully for the sounds of Mohana's anklets. The assortment of ladles and pans looked around, confused by their sudden loss of purpose. The spice rack peered d