She took a slow sip of chai, looked at me over her glasses, and smiled.
Not because she demanded it, but because she had declared her bed a sovereign nation—and we were all willing subjects. 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. She took a slow sip of chai, looked
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. 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."