Deep breath.
You'd think after all these years, I'd be used to it.
But nope.
As soon as we pull up to my cousin's house, I know what's waiting on the other side of that gate:
Pure, unfiltered chaos.
We step inside—
BOOM.
It hits me like a truck made of noise, masala, and unsolicited advice.
First stop: The Living Room.
Uncles are spread out like it's a UN summit of sports and politics.
"The economy is collapsing."
"Did you see the game last night?"
"Back in my day—"
"kid, let me tell you something…"
They've been having the same arguments since 2004. Nobody agrees on anything.
Nobody wins.
And somehow, they love it.
It's like a verbal wrestling match .
Next stop: The Kitchen.
Imagine a battlefield. But instead of weapons, there's pressure cookers, rolling pins, and drama.
My aunties are in full action mode — cooking, gossiping, judging each other's recipes like it's MasterChef: Wedding Edition.
"Why is she stirring the rice like that?"
"It'll break the rice!"
"Uff, just let her be. That's how her mother used to make it."
I swear someone's arguing over whether the kheer (Indian dessert) needs more cardamom or just emotional support.
Meanwhile, the smell?
Oh. My. God.
It's a mix of freshly fried pakoras, something sweet bubbling in a pot, and the subtle scent of generational pressure.
And then... the kids.
Oh, the kids.
There's like twenty of them. None of them walk. They just run, bounce, fly, crash, and scream like they're on sugar IVs.
I'm balancing a tray of sweets, which I have no idea who gave to me, when one zooms past me like he's training for the Olympics.
"CAREFUL!" I yell, wobbling like a human seesaw.
The tray almost flips, the sweets nearly take flight, and my soul leaves my body for a second.
"SORRY!"
The kid yells as he disappears like a tornado.
Sir. You are not sorry.
I left the food on the kitchen counter and escape to the stairs, clinging to the last shred of sanity I have.
Upstairs. Silence.