Next morning, he hid Priya’s laptop charger and replaced it with a cucumber wrapped in black tape. When she panicked, he yelled, “PRANK! Bhatiji, where’s my YouTube money?”
Their true bonding began at 9 PM. Uncle would take over the TV remote—loud Bhakti channel first, then a rerun of Ramayan , and finally, a 90s action movie where “heroes didn’t need six-pack abs, just one mustache and a revolver.”
Bhatiji, on the other hand, worked from a café in Hauz Khas Village, typing social media captions while pretending to be “in a meeting.” Her lifestyle was aesthetic : minimalist desk, laptop stickers, and a constant war with her water bottle to drink more. indian uncle fuck bhatiji
Uncle ran a small hardware store, but his real business was time-pass . He’d sit on a plastic stool outside the shop, solving Sudoku and occasionally selling a nut-bolt. Customers knew: first, listen to his theory on why Indian cricket lost. Then buy the screws.
Uncle stared. “She’s getting paid for eating ? Beta, I’ve been doing that for free for 58 years. Where’s my cheque?” Next morning, he hid Priya’s laptop charger and
“Good night. Life is short. Eat parantha. Hug your Bhatiji. And always forward this message.”
At 6 AM, Uncle Sharma sent his first forward of the day to the family group “Sharma Ji Ka Parivaar”: Uncle would take over the TV remote—loud Bhakti
And every night, before sleeping, Uncle would send one last forward:
Priya laughed so hard she choked on her lassi.
Friday was sacred. Uncle would bring out his portable speaker (purchased from a guy on the street—it claimed to have “1000 watts” but sounded like a constipated bee). Priya reluctantly played Punjabi pop .
Then came antakshari . But Uncle’s rules: only songs from before 1995. Priya tried to slip in a Badshah track. Uncle gasped. “This is not singing, Bhatiji. This is… aggressive poetry with a beat.”