Witty Bean

Remember the “blank/crank call” phenomenon of the 90s? This was before Caller ID and cell phones. Some of you know what I'm talking about. Probably you've lived through it yourself. For those of you raising your eyebrows in question, here's what would happen. Every so often, you would get this weird call from God-knows-who. You would hold the slightly musty receiver and say “hello”. Complete silence or worse - creepy breathing from the other side. You would gulp and say hello a few more times. Nothing. Your mom would ask “who is it” repeatedly in an increasingly loud voice and your dad would say “give me the phone, I’ll handle it”. Then all hell would break loose. Your mom would look irritated and your dad would yell a few choice expletives into the hot receiver and you would just roll your eyes and go back to watching “ Closeup Antakshari”. This happened so often in Mumbai that after a while, I just stopped answering the phone. I let my dad handle the crank calls and e...

Every month, I see-saw between being a cleanliness freak and a complete slob. Growing up, I had an aunt who was a bit of a germophobe. She spent many a summer day (and night) cleaning obsessively, oblivious to the whispers and smirks of adults and kids alike. Well, even that aunt would be impressed with my performance when I'm in "Cleaning mode". I wash, sweep, scrub and polish until everything is gleaming. The floors, countertops, appliances and even the house plants (who try to tiptoe away from my trusty duster) need to be spotless and smudge free. Everything must sparkle!! I don't consider it a job well done if there isn't at least one argument with an annoyed spouse or one sore butt because someone slipped and skidded off my shiny floors. This is how I am for 3 weeks of a month. The remaining one week isn't pretty. Literally. One day I wake up, and it all changes. I yawn and slouch to the kitchen, wiping my drool off with the sleeve of my pajamas. I ...

I sometimes feel I'm living 2 lives. Two personalities. Like Beyonce and Sasha Fierce, except I'm not that talented. One where I'm a fully functioning adult. Responsible, conscientious and perfectly capable of not breaking a sweat when a moderately grimy 3-year-old wants me to come and see the "cake" she made me (ingredients: mud, sticks and my freshly laundered bed sheets). I smile and nod efficiently and always know where every toy/shirt/car keys/crayon has ended up. The world sees me as such a good mom and general human being, and I kind of dig myself then too! And then there's the other me, where I am walking around,  screwing up, jumping at small noises. Yelling when I could have been gentler and crying louder than my preschooler. Both hoping and fearing that any minute someone would tell me "Sorry ma'am, there's been a mistake. You are clearly incapable of ADULTING. Return your adult card and we'll see you next year!". There...

It's not Thanksgiving day and therefore expressing gratitude on social media is banned or worse, "uncool".But I'm going to do it, anyway. After dropping off the kids at school with my shirt, inside out the whole time and almost waving at somebody who wasn't waving at me, I'm sort of on a roll don't you think? Riding the dork wave here! Anyway, here are a few things I am so grateful for. Not an exhaustive list, by any means. 1. A good lipstick.  2. Wet wipes. God's own gift to harried moms with snotty kids and everything else. 3. Coffee. An endless supply of foamy coffee. I have dreams occasionally about drinking coffee, which is how addicted I am. 4. A battery pack, for when your phone runs out of juice. Now if only they made one for humans. Imagine that!  5. Angels in disguise (AID, patent pending). These pure souls are everywhere if you know how to look for them. It could be the nice old lady in front of you at the story or your son's tea...

Nostalgia. That word takes you back, months, years to a different century. Sepia toned and fuzzy at the edges. A wonderland filled with memories and the joys associated with those memories.The sounds of childhood summers and rain drenched afternoons. Road Trips with friends and school trips to the zoo. The smell of your mom as she snuggles you to sleep. Lazy Sunday mornings and the scent of cotton candy. Your favorite singer crooning his easy song. Summer romances and matinee shows. You close your eyes and wish hard, so hard to be back there in that magical place where you're still young and carefree. Nostalgia is very forgiving. The pain, the heartbreaks, and the tears are masked by fluffy, shiny reminiscences of an uncomplicated time.  And that's pretty understandable. Your brain wants you to remember only the good parts. Why be a downer and make you relive the gloomy stuff.  I take it one step further. I get nostalgic for times I don't even have...

It was late 2002.I was in my second year of MBBS, and pretty new to clinical rotations. I loved the patient encounters and was pretty good at eliciting a solid history. Patients usually liked me or tolerated me with some amusement (my conversational Marathi was pretty awful back then).  We were almost finished with our internal medicine rotation and the only thing between us and a 3-day weekend was the practical exam. I had prepped hard and was confident that this test was mine to ace. The morning of the exam, we reached the ward and our professor/examiner walked in. Our collective smiles evaporated in a quick instant. This professor was new to our College but had quickly gained a reputation for being a total hardass. He delighted in humiliating interns and students, and the general response to seeing him was to scurry away in the opposite direction.  So here we were, fresh-faced and wobbly, weakly supported by our frail 18-month medical knowledge. Some of us...

I grew up in a tiny city, on the west coast of India called Bombay. I was a surprise baby - a happy surprise, my mom insists. She raised me in a warm cocoon of love and laughter, with my grandparents helping out when she needed them to step in.My dad did his best when he was around, which wasn't too much because he worked for an airline. Even with a full-time job, she tutored me and helped me with school projects. An accomplished chef, she made sure I ate a reasonable balance of healthy and junk foods. She joked with me and cried with me and essentially was the epitome of selfless and unconditional love. She was (is) a cheerful soul, taking life's blows and brickbats with a smile, and she never ever dumped any of her baggage on us. She made it look so easy- my sister and I grew up thinking that motherhood was just a casual phase of life. Easy as pie.  I was proven so terribly wrong after the birth of my son. I was reeling from postpartum depression and an especially diffi...