Aunty In Bed -

Every Sunday morning, the house belonged to Aunty Priya.

She took a slow sip of chai, looked at me over her glasses, and smiled. aunty in bed

By 8 a.m., she'd be propped against three feather pillows, a steaming chai on the nightstand, and her old reading glasses perched halfway down her nose. The duvet was pulled up to her chin, even in summer. "The fan is trying to assassinate me," she'd insist, pointing a bony finger at the ceiling. Every Sunday morning, the house belonged to Aunty Priya

"Are you ever getting up?" I asked once, as a teenager. The duvet was pulled up to her chin, even in summer

"Get up? Child, I am not in bed. I am strategically horizontal . There is a difference."

Not because she demanded it, but because she had declared her bed a sovereign nation—and we were all willing subjects.