Weaselwati Rises:

---

A Prequel from Mango Meadows , How she Became the Patron Saint of Popped Paychecks

There comes a moment in every woman’s life when she looks into the abyss of her wallet—and the wallet whispers back, “Naanu illa.”

That, dear reader, was the exact moment Weaselwati was born.

It was a Thursday. Or a Wednesday. Some midweek monstrosity that blended seamlessly into the next. I was sitting on the swing in Mango Meadows, chewing the end of a pencil like it owed me money. (It didn’t. But my landlord did.)

“Why are you growling at your Google Sheet?” Chits asked, cautiously placing a tumbler of coffee next to me like I was a wild animal mid-tax season.

“It’s not a sheet,” I replied, eyes twitching. “It’s a record of hopes betrayed.”

Chats peered over my shoulder. “Is that your budget?”

“No,” I said, too calmly. “It’s a tragic novella titled What I Thought I Could Afford vs. Reality.”

They knew better than to interrupt me mid-financial meltdown. But bless their gossipy hearts—they stayed.

I continued, spiraling with flair. “This month I spent ₹800 on delivery charges, ₹2,000 on oat milk I hate, and my freelance client paid me in… exposure. Again.”

“Idu full drama,” murmured Chats. “You need a spirit guide. A divine accountant.”

“I don’t need a guide,” I snapped. “I am the guide. Or rather… the cursed cautionary tale.”

It was in that moment of caffeine-fuelled despair and grandiosity that she emerged—Weaselwati.

She wasn’t summoned. She just… arrived.

Part goddess, part middle-class meltdown. She wore a faded FabIndia kurta, floated slightly above the ground (to avoid Swiggy wrappers), and carried an old spinning wheel strapped to her back like a tortured Sherpa of capitalism. She also had my face. Just… more sleep-deprived.

“Ellarigu namaskara,” she said, her voice a divine mix of Siri and sarcasm. “I am Weaselwati, patron saint of financial delusion and annual income projections. I appear to those who live paycheck to paycheck and still buy artisanal peanut butter.”

Chits blinked. “She looks like you.”

“Correction,” I said. “She looks like me after opening the credit card bill.”

Weaselwati floated toward me, sipped my coffee without asking, and began prophesying:

“You will download three budgeting apps. You will use none. You will swear off Zomato and then spend ₹400 on that exact oat milk frappe that betrayed you last week.”

Chats bowed deeply. “Guruji! What is the secret to surviving this economy?”

Weaselwati smirked. “Lower your expectations. And your data plan.”

“Pop goes the budget, pop goes the plan,
Pop goes your savings when you order biryani at 2am!”

From then on, she appeared in times of crisis:

• When I tried to do mental math at the petrol pump.
• When I “accidentally” bought that third pair of ethically made chappals.
• When UPI stopped working during a date, and I had to pretend to “go to the washroom” while actually recharging my data plan.

At first, I thought she was a phase. A ghost of my bad decisions. But Weaselwati wasn’t just mine—she belonged to anyone who’d ever muttered “yaake ide janmadanta budget?” at a supermarket billing counter.

She became our in-house oracle at Mango Meadows. Interns began whispering her name during stipend season. Chits claimed to see her in her tax portal errors. Chats swore Weaselwati once warned her off buying an ₹899 mango-scented candle that smelled like regret.

And so, she became legend.

“Pop goes the weasel” wasn’t a nursery rhyme anymore—it was a daily update. A mantra. A lifestyle.

Weaselwati lives. And unfortunately, so do her bills.

So the next time your salary disappears before your cart reaches checkout, just know—she sees you.

And she’s softly whispering in your ear…

“Put that back. You don’t need another tote bag.
And no, eating out doesn’t count as ‘investing in happiness’.”

---