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
And then she pulled the blanket over her head, muffling her laughter, and declared court adjourned until lunch.
"Someone tell Netflix to stop suggesting thrillers. I am already stressed about my plants." Every Sunday morning, the house belonged to Aunty Priya
The Royal Court of Blankets
Not because she demanded it, but because she had declared her bed a sovereign nation—and we were all willing subjects. She settled disputes between cousins ("Both of you are wrong
"Are you ever getting up?" I asked once, as a teenager.