Witty Bean

The Latin name was Mimosa Pudica. Slender and prickly, the Touch-me-Not plant was a loner. But with enough shade, and the right kind of soil, the little fern often sprouted delicate flowers. Purple pink and florid, these blooms were a pop of joy, a rosy smile on an otherwise lonely facade. It was late evening when the lorry rumbled down the muddy roads. In the driver’s seat, Lajwanti sneezed and flicked away an errant blade of hay. Her throat was dry and her eyes burned from glaring at the sun all day.10 more kilometers, and then a bathroom break on one of those dirt roads that meandered off the highway. She also needed to use the PCO. After 13 hours, he would expect an update.  And sure enough, after a quarter of an hour, she spotted a little muddy track with a PCO sign next to it. KalamBhai’s voice boomed inside her head. “Remember, you cannot get caught before you make the exchange. That would end of the whole operation. We have 70 crores at Stake!”.  So signaling appro

The wispy shrub grew without too much fuss. Shy plant, Shame Plant, the Touch-Me-Not. Many names, for the same little fern who withdrew from the slightest touch. A soft breeze, a sudden movement - all of these made the plant fold inward. All it wanted - a handful of soil and a quiet corner of the land. In the early hours of a March dawn, Kalambhai stretched his burly arms and sniffed the air. Might rain today. The Tv predicted Thunderstorms for the entire state. He hoped that wouldn’t mess with the travel time. His clients were rich Europeans, and a bad review from them would not help his fledgling business. News traveled fast in their circles, and he always had goods to move. Almost time. Lajwanti should be ready with the lorry. Kalambhai was an atheist, but having a woman in his line of work? An absolute Godsend. Of course, she was ugly as sin, but he didn’t employ her for her looks now, did he? As he marched toward the large barn, he could see the gray blue fumes of the lorry

Pramila was going to be late for Art Class. Second time this week, and no one to blame but herself. Well…. and Raj. Mmm Raj!   With an impish smile, she adjusted her Kurta and locked the door behind her. Oh wait! Her paint brushes?!! She would look like a proper fool if she showed up tardy AND without her tools. Slipping back into her room, she looked around frantically for the supplies. Not on the sofa (Hey, Pramila), not under the table (Pramila, listen) and unsurprisingly, not in her Art Corner (I think I’m falling for you, Pramila). Where were the damn brushes?!! On a sudden whim, she peeked into the bedroom. A cozy bed blinked merrily back at her. The sheets were in absolute disarray (whose fault is that, now?) and two pillows peeked from under the thick quilt. (Prami, will you marry me?) (Shut up, Raj, you cannot be serious!) (I’m as serious as a heart attack, darling). Raj’s aftershave lingered in her bedroom - heady and tantalizing. A mental imag

Melanie walked around the house, putting away a toy here, fluffing a pillow there. Another dreary day in a rather mundane week. Endless versions of Coffee-breakfast-laundry-lunch-cleaning-school-snacks-homework-nag-homework-bath-dinner. Every single day, the absolute same. “The Thrilling Life of a Housewife, Chapter 1031”, she thought with a grimace. Her back ached, her eyes hurt, and she was bored to the point of screaming. Outside her highrise, lights twinkled on, in the distant freeway. She gripped the cool metal of the grilled window and peered at the dusky darkness. As a yawning breeze caressed her face, she let out a sigh. A little newspaper headline popped into her head. “Supermom pries open Window Rails and flies into the night, before falling to her death,”. No, No! How about this: “Former Editor of Metro Publishing, gleefully jumps to her death from towering Laundry Pile. You will not believe her last words.” Too click bait-y. Come on, you can do better, babe. “