Witty Bean

Academics and academic success. Oh boy, these bring back some weird memories. Of aunties with braided hair fussing outside Exam halls. Commercials on TV where the mom pours out Bournvita with a semi manic gleam in her eyes; her child working away into the night. Rote learning, rulers slapping little palms and the Rank systems at school. “Tune kya answer likha?” “Yaar iss baar na, pakka fail.” “Mumma, can you please not show Papa my report card,”. Growing up in the 80s and 90s, I’ve seen the worst of what academic expectations can do to a young child. My mom never pressurized me to study. At least not overtly. She made the occasional, “look how well XYZ is scoring, maybe you can do that too” comment, but nothing worse than that. But I remember friends who couldn’t eat until they had done their homework perfectly. A classmate who’s mom dropped in during lunch every day (EVERY DAY!) to quiz him on Geography/Science. Class toppers announcing snottily that they probably got one answer w...

TEARS . I’m glad for them. Tears means there is love. Your daughter’s tears when she doesn’t get one more story before bedtime. Your son’s voluminous eyes glinting because he heard about your overnight trip. Love for companionship, love for family, love for doing something meaningful/meaningless with people you care about. ANGER . When your husband snaps at you because you’re scrolling on your phone instead of snuggling with him in bed. The exasperation that comes from missed conversations and tired parenting. Irritation with a friend who keeps canceling, your child annoying you with a 30 minute “joke”. Acknowledge this anger fully and appreciate what it symbolizes. It keeps you on your toes and reminds you about the important bits of your life. The parts that are worth getting worked up about. The people who will always hold your heart in their hands. I’m thankful for UNKINDNESS . Unkindness reminds you to inspect how you interact with people. A rude comment, a mean act - these...

I love winter. We don’t get snow in my part of California, but it still gets very cold. I own a snazzy collection of coats/fleece leggings and cashmere sweaters, so it is by far my favorite season. Plus, it is always fun to go four months without shaving your legs.  This morning is colder than usual. My breath is misting, there’s a fine layer of frost on the bedroom window and my Spinal column takes an extra minute to unfreeze before I can finally sit up. And then, slowly, everything falls apart. My neck hurts horribly (hello late 30s!), the toaster dies after burning one slice, my son has his 345th cold of the season. And I feel so, so blue.  “Don’t cry! Don’t cry! Don’t you dare cry,” I whisper to myself. A quick glance at the phone app confirms I’m likely PMSing, but that doesn’t make the sadness go away. I snap at the kids who are bickering and pour out my 3rd cup of coffee. The kids resume their whining, and I look outside the window at the neighbor’...

I watched the movie ‘Stree’ recently and loved every second. (For those who don’t know, Stree is a Bollywood movie about an evil spirit who abducts men after calling out their name seductively.) Horror and Comedy are my favorite genres, and as the credits rolled, a little idea popped into my head. You see, I fancy myself something of a prankster. So that same night, once the kids were asleep, I crouched under my bed and waited for my husband to retire for the day. And soon enough, he came, eyes glued to his little screen, watching some YouTube Video. A little later, I felt the familiar creak as he settled down on the bed. Patience is my forte, so I waited a minute more. Then I jangled a few bangles I’d kept ready for just this purpose (Much like Baden Powell, my motto is Be Prepared).  *Jangle Jangle Jangle*  The tinny sound of the YouTube Video paused. Now I had his attention. Then in my creepiest ‘Stree’  voice, I said: “Raghav,”. ...

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...

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.  ...