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So now I am sitting here with my third cup of chai, eating the broken mathri myself (don’t judge, waste not want not), and typing this post.

I am standing in the kitchen, minding my own business, wearing my favorite Kashmiri pink petticoat (the one with the thick elastic, you know the one), waiting for the pressure cooker to whistle. I am stirring the sugar into my cutting chai when I hear a from the store room.

Sharma boy, if you are reading this—bring my ball back before your father hears from me.

I wipe my hands on my anchal. I pick up my chappal (just in case). I tiptoe.

I think, “Chor? Lizard? Or that naughty Sharma boy from next door who keeps kicking his football into my tulsi pot?”

He looked at me like, “Aunty, what are you looking at? This is my house now.”

And what do I find?

So, let me tell you what happened this morning.