Every time you visit Aunty’s house, you arrive with hope—a naive, foolish hope. Maybe today will be different. Maybe today she will surprise you with piping hot dosas, crispy vadas, or even—dare you dream—chole bhature.
But no.
The moment you step inside, the aroma of roasted rava fills your nostrils. Your heart sinks. Your soul weeps. Upma. Again.
At first, you try to play it cool. Maybe it’s just a coincidence. Maybe Aunty just really loves Upma. But then, the patterns start forming.
- Morning? Upma.
- Evening? Upma.
- Festival day? Special garnished Upma.
- Someone’s birthday? Party-sized Upma.
- Someone dies? Funeral Upma.
You start noticing bizarre things around the house. The kitchen is filled with industrial-sized bags of rava. A large painting of Lord Rava (which suspiciously looks like a grainy version of Vishnu) hangs in the living room. Once, you swear you saw her whispering something to a bowl of Upma before serving it.
One day, you can’t take it anymore.
“Aunty, why always Upma?!”
She sighs, as if she’s been waiting for this question. She leans in and whispers:
“Because, my dear… there is nothing else.”
Your stomach clenches. “What do you mean?”
Aunty smiles. “Tell me… have you ever seen me cook anything else?”
You pause. No, actually, you haven’t. Not even once.
She continues, her voice eerily calm, “Have you ever left my house without eating Upma?”
Your blood runs cold. The truth is inescapable. You’ve been trapped in The Upma Universe—a reality where Upma is not just a dish, but a way of life.
You try to resist. You start bringing snacks with you, hoping to break the cycle. But every time, Aunty somehow finds a way. Your chips get mysteriously misplaced. Your sandwich vanishes, replaced by… a neatly packed Upma tiffin.
One day, you walk past a mirror and freeze. Your reflection… it’s not you. It’s Aunty. Clad in a floral saree, a ladle in one hand, and a steel bowl of steaming Upma in the other.
You scream.
She pats your head. “Shhh, beta. Eat your Upma.”
And just like that… you take the first bite.
The Upma Universe has won!
But then… one day… something changes.
You walk into Aunty’s house and stop.
The aroma. It’s different.
Lighter. Citrusy. There’s a hint of mustard seeds dancing in oil, curry leaves crackling with joy. You sniff again.
Could it be?
Poha?!
You rush to the kitchen—and there it is. Glorious, yellow, peanut-studded Poha, sitting on the counter like a long-lost friend.
You blink twice. It doesn’t disappear. It’s real. REAL.
“Aunty,” you whisper, tears forming. “Is this… not Upma?”
She smiles. “Today I felt like trying something different.”
Your knees buckle. You text your friends:
“There’s hope. She made Poha. The curse is broken.”
You eat slowly, reverently, like a pilgrim savoring prasad. For the first time in years, the taste of rebellion dances on your tongue. You sleep that night like a free man.
But the next morning…
You walk in, humming, light on your feet.
And then it hits you.
The smell.
It’s back.
You turn slowly, and there she is. Aunty.
Standing tall. Smiling.
Holding a bowl of steaming, triumphant Upma.
“Poha was a test,” she says.
“And you failed.”
Your world crumbles.
The Poha was just a glitch in the matrix.
The Upma Universe is intact.
It always was.
It always will be.
Disclaimer:
This piece is a light-hearted satire inspired by real-life aunties and their undying love for Upma. Any similarity to actual Upmas—fluffy, soggy, or tragically dry—is purely a matter of cooked coincidence. No Upma was physically harmed during the writing of this article (though a few may have felt personally attacked).
We deeply respect all breakfast choices, even those that come in the shape of a semolina brick. This article is meant purely for laughs, not as an excuse to dodge your neighborhood aunty’s lovingly made tiffin—however dense or coriander-heavy it may be.
Side effects of prolonged exposure to this story may include:
- Sudden cravings for chutney
- Involuntary use of the phrase “There is no escape from Upma”
- A newfound appreciation for variety in tiffin menus
Proceed with humor. And if you’re currently eating Upma while reading this… just know—we’re silently nodding in solidarity.
