Witty Bean

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