Aunty In Bed Here

The Royal Court of Blankets

Her phone buzzed constantly. The family group chat, "Chaos & Chai," lit up with her morning dispatches:

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. aunty in bed

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

And then she pulled the blanket over her head, muffling her laughter, and declared court adjourned until lunch. The Royal Court of Blankets Her phone buzzed constantly

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

Every Sunday morning, the house belonged to Aunty Priya. "The fan is trying to assassinate me," she'd

"Are you ever getting up?" I asked once, as a teenager.