"Are you ever getting up?" I asked once, as a teenager.
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
"Get up? Child, I am not in bed. I am strategically horizontal . There is a difference." "Are you ever getting up
Her phone buzzed constantly. The family group chat, "Chaos & Chai," lit up with her morning dispatches: I am right
"Someone tell Netflix to stop suggesting thrillers. I am already stressed about my plants."
Not because she demanded it, but because she had declared her bed a sovereign nation—and we were all willing subjects.