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...