Every Sunday morning, the house belonged to Aunty Priya.
Her phone buzzed constantly. The family group chat, "Chaos & Chai," lit up with her morning dispatches:
From her bed, Aunty Priya ran the universe. She settled disputes between cousins ("Both of you are wrong. I am right. Now hug."), dispensed career advice ("Quit. No job is worth a 6 a.m. alarm."), and occasionally launched a slipper at the door when her husband tried to change the TV channel. aunty in bed
Not because she demanded it, but because she had declared her bed a sovereign nation—and we were all willing subjects.
She took a slow sip of chai, looked at me over her glasses, and smiled. Every Sunday morning, the house belonged to Aunty Priya
"Who finished the pickle? I will not name names. But Rohan. It was Rohan."
And then she pulled the blanket over her head, muffling her laughter, and declared court adjourned until lunch. She settled disputes between cousins ("Both of you are wrong
"Get up? Child, I am not in bed. I am strategically horizontal . There is a difference."