Meher Ahuja
Filter Wala Drama
When Tanya clicked “Post” on her innocuous Sunday breakfast photo—croissants, coffee, sunshine streaming in—she had no idea that five minutes later, she’d be receiving a flurry of heart reacts, a cryptic “God bless you beta #StayPure” comment, and a DM from her mother-in-law asking why she wasn’t wearing sindoor.
It had begun. The war for her social media.
Just two months into marriage, Tanya had learned to live with many things: Rohan’s obsession with buying houseplants he’d forget to water, his weird nighttime playlist that included whale sounds, and the fact that his socks never met their partners again after laundry day. But nothing had prepared her for Mrs. Indira Malhotra, Instagram Enthusiast and Keeper of Family Dignity.
Indira aunty had discovered Instagram one week ago. The world, as Tanya knew it, was now operating under a new algorithm—Indigram.
“Beta, I made a little account. Just to stay in touch!” she had said sweetly during Sunday lunch, stirring dal while simultaneously tagging Tanya in a throwback collage from their wedding—blurry photos, double chins, bad lighting, and all. “It’s called Malhotras.In.Unison. What do you think?”
Tanya thought it was a PR disaster.
The account bio read: “We are one big happy joint family. No secrets. Just sanskar, smiles & saag.” The display photo was a horrifyingly cropped family picture from the reception—Tanya’s face partially hidden behind an uncle’s shiny bald head.
Within days, the page had 132 followers—mostly relatives, neighborhood aunties, and one confused wedding planner. Every post had long captions written in pure auntie dialect: “Beta Rohan doing teeth service in dental camp. So proud of my diamond boy!! 👨⚕️💎🦷 #DoctorSaab #GoodBoy #MothersPride.” Tanya’s face, when it appeared, was usually pixelated and accompanied by strange hashtags like #NotWearingLipstick and #RespectfulDaughterInLaw.
Rohan, being the human boiled potato that he was, simply shrugged. “Ma’s happy. Let her have fun.”
“But she posted a picture of my night cream and asked if I had switched to foreign brands,” Tanya whispered in horror. “She tagged three ayurvedic companies and said she’s open to collaborations.”
“She’s trying to become an influencer,” Rohan said, now a little worried. “Maybe it’s a phase?”
It wasn’t. It was a lifestyle.
Indira aunty had discovered the magic of reels. By Wednesday, she was posting transition videos of her wardrobe changes from “Puja Look” to “Evening Kitty Look.” She’d drag Tanya into it, ambushing her with a “Say cheese!” while she was brushing her teeth. On Thursday, Tanya walked into the kitchen to find her MIL standing on a stool, filming the aloo paratha from a drone angle—achieved by taping her phone to a ladle and holding it aloft.
By Friday, Tanya cracked.
It happened during a normal scroll through her own account. She’d posted a selfie with Rohan from their beach trip the previous year. She looked relaxed, windswept, sun-kissed. The caption was simple: “This one. Always.” Within minutes, @Malhotras.In.Unison had reposted it with “They grow up so fast. My kids, my pride. 🥹 #BahuGoals #BeachBahu #TogetherForever.”
Worse, her mother called. “Tanya, your in-laws are posting honeymoon pictures of you in a swimsuit? Are you okay?”
That was the final straw.
That evening, during family chai, Tanya cleared her throat. “Ma, can we maybe not post everything on Instagram? I mean, not everyone needs to know about our daal recipe or our blood group.”
Indira aunty blinked. “But beta, this is the age of content. People like our lifestyle! Look, we got 230 likes on Rohan’s shaving reel!”
Rohan blushed. “Wait, what shaving reel?”
“I filmed you yesterday from the window. That side angle is very cinematic.”
Tanya buried her face in her hands.
“Also,” Indira aunty added with pride, “I’ve scheduled tomorrow’s post already. It’s about your laundry folding technique.”
“My what?”
“You do that nice roll-fold like the Japanese lady. Very inspirational.”
“Marie Kondo?”
“Yes yes! We’ll tag her!”
That night, Tanya sat with Rohan on their bed, laptop open, expression grim. “It’s us or the Instagram.”
Rohan looked torn. “Can’t it be both?”
“No. There has to be a strategy.”
And thus began Operation Privacy.
Tanya decided to go passive-aggressive. She began commenting bizarre things under the Malhotra posts: “This post does not reflect the views of Tanya Malhotra Inc.” or “This content is AI-generated. Any resemblance to real people is accidental.” She replied to comments in Shakespearean English. She began tagging random celebrities in posts, hoping someone would report it for spam.
But Indira aunty only saw this as increased engagement.
She messaged Tanya: “Beta, your captions have become so witty! I’m learning so much from you. Love the energy. Keep going!”
By Sunday, things took a darker turn. Tanya’s father, a retired philosophy professor who had sworn off all social media, opened an Instagram account named @BengaliDadsUnite. He followed @Malhotras.In.Unison and left a single comment under every photo: “This is not real happiness.”
The war had gone generational.
Rohan sighed as he scrolled through their family feed. “We’re going viral, babe. We might as well get sponsored.”
Tanya’s eye twitched.
And then, out of nowhere, they got a DM.
A reality show producer had seen the family account. He was casting for a new web series: Family Filter: Unedited & Unbothered. He wanted them on board. Weekly shoots, lots of drama, monetized hashtags. Sanskar meets chaos.
The family WhatsApp group exploded with “Jai Mata Di” and “OMG TV TIME!!” messages. Tanya just sat on the couch, watching the dishwasher blink “Error” for the seventh time that week, wondering if she could legally marry into a different family without divorcing her husband.
She picked up her phone and opened the Instagram app.
Tomorrow, she would start her own anonymous meme page.
Title: In-Laws Unfiltered.
And the first post would say: “Welcome to the circus. Popcorn not included.”
Reels Before Feels
Tanya launched her secret Instagram page at 2:13 AM with the same adrenaline rush usually reserved for whistleblowers and bank robbers. The username: @InLawsUnfiltered. The bio: “All characters are real. Unfortunately.” She used a stock photo of a sofa covered in laundry for the profile picture. It was symbolic.
The first post was a meme:
Image: A perfectly set dining table with seven steel katoris arranged like chakras.
Caption: “Every Indian daughter-in-law’s final boss battle.”
Hashtags: #JointFamilyChronicles #SabziWars #DaalWithDrama
By the time Rohan woke up, the post had 214 likes and three comments from other DILs saying “This is my LIFE.” Tanya smiled like a secret agent on the brink of revolution.
Meanwhile, back at Malhotras.In.Unison, things had taken a more… cinematic turn. Indira aunty had discovered slow-motion.
Sunday’s reel featured her dramatically sprinkling coriander on chhole while the song “Tujh Mein Rab Dikhta Hai” played in the background. The camera panned lovingly from the pressure cooker to her smile, then cut to Rohan sneezing in the background. The caption read: “Cooking with love, served with blessings 💛 #KitchenQueen #SonBlessed #SaasReelDiaries”
Rohan scrolled past it in horror. “Why is there a close-up of my sinus moment?”
“You’ve become content,” Tanya whispered, sipping her coffee. “You’re a character now. You have no control over your arc.”
“Should I fake my own death?”
“It won’t work unless the funeral is live-streamed.”
At breakfast, Indira aunty was glowing. “Beta, guess what? I’ve been asked to host a Live on Kitchen Kings of India. They want me to show how to make ghiya interesting.”
“Impossible,” said Tanya automatically.
“No, no! I’ve made a rap. ‘Yo yo bottle gourd, don’t be bored.’” She proceeded to beatbox while chopping onions. Rohan choked on his toast. Tanya got up and left the room.
In the privacy of the balcony, Tanya opened @InLawsUnfiltered and typed:
Post:
Image: A pressure cooker with googly eyes photoshopped onto it.
Caption: “This cooker has seen more secrets than the entire CBI.”
Hashtags: #JointFamilyLeaks #SaasTok #CookerOfTruth
That post exploded. 3,000 likes. A shoutout from a page called @PettyPunjabi. Even a DM from an indie comic illustrator offering to collaborate on “Saasy Tales”. Tanya finally felt seen.
But anonymity was hard in a house where aunties opened drawers just “to see what was in them.” She had to tread carefully. She began posting coded memes only people in similar households would understand. When someone commented, “Are you me???” she replied, “No, just your parallel timeline.”
Meanwhile, Rohan was spiraling.
He was now the face of Tooth Truth Tuesdays, a video series his mother had started without his knowledge. Every Tuesday, she would film Rohan mid-bite into toast or brushing absentmindedly and overlay it with facts about molars. One reel began with “This is my son Rohan. He knows your wisdom teeth better than your therapist does.”
Tanya walked in on Rohan watching his own reel in stunned silence.
“They animated my tooth,” he said. “It’s dancing.”
“We need a strategy meeting,” Tanya said, sitting beside him like a war general. “Operation Filtered Rebellion begins tonight.”
By 11 PM, the couple had created a flowchart titled ‘Ways To De-Influence Our Family.’ Methods included:
- Content Exhaustion: Flood Indira aunty with fake trends until she gets confused.
- Technical Errors: Change WiFi password daily. Rename network to “ReelVirusDetected.”
- Reverse Psychology: Over-encourage cringey ideas so she gives up on her own.
- Diversion: Get her obsessed with a different app—maybe knitting forums.
“I say we start with step one,” Tanya grinned.
Next morning, Rohan casually mentioned over chai, “Ma, did you hear? There’s a new trend where people post reels of absolute silence. It’s called ZenTok. All the influencers are doing it.”
Indira’s eyes lit up. “How creative! Silence is so divine. We should post a silent family lunch today.”
“YES,” Tanya clapped. “Let’s call it Mute Malhotras Monday.”
By afternoon, Indira had posted a 2-minute reel of everyone eating silently. The only sounds were spoons clinking and the faint whir of the ceiling fan. The caption was: “Peace. Harmony. Gobhi.”
It got three likes.
The next day, Tanya upped the chaos. She whispered to her MIL, “Ma, I read that Instagram’s algorithm now favors videos with no humans, only shadows and blurry objects. It’s a symbol of minimalism and mystery.”
Indira aunty immediately posted a reel of a rotating pressure cooker lid with the caption: “In silence, we steam.”
That one actually went viral—but for the wrong reasons. People thought it was a performance art account. Some commented, “Is this a metaphor for anxiety?” Another wrote, “The cooker represents the mental load of brown moms. Powerful.”
Indira was delighted. “I have discovered the deeper art of the reel, beta.”
Tanya nodded, sipping her chai. “Very… avant-garde.”
Meanwhile, @InLawsUnfiltered had crossed 10,000 followers. The latest post?
Image: A tupperware cabinet spilling its contents.
Caption: “If the plastic box you want is at the bottom, know that peace is a lie.”
Hashtag: #TupperwareTerror
But with fame came risk. One night, Tanya saw a suspicious new follower: @Malhotra_Official.
“Could it be…?” she whispered.
“Maybe a fan?” Rohan offered.
Or maybe not. That evening, Indira aunty said sweetly, “Tanya beta, do you know someone posting memes about ghiya, tupperware, and joint family blood pressure levels? Their jokes are too familiar.”
Tanya froze. “Oh? Sounds… oddly specific.”
“I find it hilarious!” Indira chuckled. “Such imagination! You kids are so creative these days. If only they used their talents in useful ways, like knitting reels.”
Tanya nodded, heart racing.
Later that night, she changed the profile picture of @InLawsUnfiltered to a blurry photo of a potato. Safe. Universal. Untouchable.
She messaged her top commenter, a page called @TheMasalaSaas:
“How do you handle it when your MIL discovers meme culture?”
Reply came instantly:
“Send her to Pinterest. It’s the nursing home of social media.”
Tanya smiled.
War wasn’t over. But she’d found her army.
Hashtag Hysteria
It started with the papaya.
Tanya had spent a blissful morning sipping iced coffee and working on a client pitch when Indira aunty burst into the room, cheeks flushed with excitement and a suspiciously color-corrected papaya in her hand.
“Beta, just smell this! Doesn’t it scream vitality?”
Tanya blinked. “What?”
“The new reel series,” Indira declared. “Fruits With Feelings! Each fruit represents a family member. Guess who the papaya is?”
Tanya looked around for hidden cameras. “Rohan?”
“No! Me, of course. Full of goodness, misunderstood by millennials, and occasionally mushy but deeply healing.”
Rohan walked past, muttering, “This house has officially gone full fruit loop.”
The first reel from Fruits With Feelings dropped that evening. It opened with a slow pan of the papaya on the dining table, a flute-heavy instrumental playing in the background, followed by Indira aunty’s voiceover: “Like the papaya, I ripen with time. Sweet, seeded, and ignored until needed.” The caption read: #PapayaParenting #FruitWisdom #ReelKarma
Tanya watched in stunned silence. “She made a TED Talk out of produce.”
By midnight, the reel had 723 views and one very enthusiastic comment from an account named @BananaBlessings: “Papaya queens unite! This gave me goosebumps.”
Rohan turned to Tanya. “You started this. You and your meme account.”
Tanya raised an eyebrow. “You think I gave birth to Fruit Wisdom? No, this is evolution. She’s gone rogue.”
But what truly broke Tanya wasn’t the fruit. It was the Sanskaari Saturdays series.
Indira aunty had begun uploading “sanskari tutorials” featuring Tanya doing random household tasks while Gayatri Mantra played softly in the background. Folding bed covers, lighting incense, opening a packet of moong dal—each task now came with narration like, “A good bahu doesn’t just light a diya. She lights hope.”
And always, always: #BahuGoals #SanskaariSaturdays #MoralOfTheMethi
One reel caught Tanya mid-sneeze as she was sprinkling jeera in hot oil. Caption: “Even when the spice bites, she smiles.”
Tanya stormed into the living room. “Ma, why are you turning my bodily functions into moral lessons?”
Indira looked confused. “Beta, it’s not you. It’s the spirit of you. The essence of bahu.”
“I’m not an essence! I’m a human with boundaries and sinus problems!”
“But people relate. Look—so many comments from young girls saying they want to be like you.”
“Have you asked if I want to be like me?!”
Rohan entered holding a papaya smoothie and whispered, “Do you think the papaya signed up for this?”
Tanya’s glare could’ve curdled the milk in it.
Back in her room, Tanya logged into @InLawsUnfiltered. She posted:
Image: A woman holding a rolling pin in one hand and a ring light in the other.
Caption: “When your MIL wants you to be both sanskaari and sponsored.”
Hashtags: #InfluencerInLaws #HashtagHarassment #TooMuchMasala
Within two hours, the post had 4,500 likes and a DM from a woman in Jaipur: “Mine makes me pose with turmeric. Pls send help.”
Tanya replied: “Solidarity, sister. May your face stay stain-free.”
But as her page grew, so did the risk of discovery. Indira aunty had begun using Tanya’s laptop to upload videos, and one day, she nearly clicked into her alt account. Tanya dove across the room with the agility of a Marvel stunt double and slammed the screen shut.
“Beta, are you watching something indecent?”
“Yes,” Tanya panted. “The news.”
To divert suspicion, Tanya told Rohan they needed a decoy scandal.
“Like what?”
“We fake a fight. A big one. Drama. Enough to distract her and hopefully get us kicked off her content calendar.”
And so began Operation Divorce Lite.
It started with subtle loud sighs during dinner. Then moved to passive-aggressive Post-its on the fridge: “Yes, I bought the wrong bread. No, it’s not a metaphor.”
Then came the grand act: a deliberately staged “fight” in the hallway about towels.
Tanya yelled, “You always use MY towel!”
Rohan snapped back, “Well maybe I like lavender!”
They turned to find Indira aunty standing at the stairs, phone already recording.
“Perfect!” she beamed. “This’ll make an amazing reel. Couple Conflicts: The Healthy Way.”
Tanya nearly cried.
That night, the reel dropped with the caption: “Fights are just spicy ways to say ‘I care.’ #CoupleSpice #TowelTension #LoveInLaughter”
Tanya screamed into a pillow.
Rohan rubbed her back. “We’re living inside a caption now.”
Later that night, as Tanya doom-scrolled through her own account for solace, she got a DM from an anonymous account called @FilmyFufa:
“Hey. You don’t know me. But I know the pain of becoming content. They once made me do a full remix of Hum Saath Saath Hain for my cousin’s anniversary reel. I never recovered.”
Tanya replied, “You are seen. You are valid. You are us.”
A new idea took root. A rebellion—but with flair.
The next post on @InLawsUnfiltered:
Image: A wedding photo with everyone’s eyes replaced by Instagram logos.
Caption: “Marriage: Where privacy goes to die and hashtags come to life.”
Hashtags: #StopContentAbuse #MyLifeIsNotYourReel #PapayaJustice
Tanya clicked Post, cracked her knuckles, and whispered, “It’s war.”
Downstairs, Indira aunty shouted, “Beta, want to help me film a reel about gas problems? It’s sponsored by Hing.”
Tanya replied calmly, “Only if I get royalties.”
Hing & Hostility
Tanya had once dreamed of a simple married life. The kind with messy buns, shared Spotify playlists, and the occasional fight about which side the ketchup bottle belonged on. What she hadn’t anticipated was becoming the face of Ayurvedic flatulence remedies.
The Hing Reel, as it came to be known in the family WhatsApp group, was uploaded on a sleepy Wednesday afternoon. Tanya had barely returned from work when she found Indira aunty holding a packet of Shudh Dadi Hing like it was an Oscar.
“We have a brand collab, beta! This is big. They’ve asked us to post a reel featuring real people—not actors. You and Rohan are perfect!”
Tanya blinked. “I’m not going to pretend to have gas.”
“Not pretend,” Indira said, already arranging cushions on the sofa. “Authenticity is key.”
“You want me to sit here, groan, and then hold my stomach?”
“No groaning. Just say, ‘Sometimes, even love can’t digest bad food. But Hing can.’ Smile and raise the packet like it’s gold.”
Rohan walked in, took one look at the scene, and whispered, “Are we in an ad or a hostage video?”
By 7 PM, the reel was live:
Visual: Tanya pretending to look uncomfortable, Rohan patting her back, Indira sliding in from the side like a stage actor with the hing.
Caption: “Marriage is full of spicy moments. Keep the heat, lose the gas. #HingHeals #DigestThisLove #ReelRelief”
Tanya stared at the screen in disbelief. “I just became the ambassador for indigestion.”
Worse, the brand reposted it. The reel crossed 20,000 views in two days. Comments rolled in: “This is better than Bigg Boss,” “Real couples, real gas,” and the ominous, “Can we get more content on acidity in relationships?”
That night, Tanya stood on the balcony with her phone and rage.
She uploaded her own post to @InLawsUnfiltered:
Image: A marriage certificate edited to include “Clause 7: You may be used for branded bowel movement reels.”
Caption: “Love is patient. Love is kind. Love is also sponsored.”
Hashtags: #GaslitAndGassy #SanskaariSponsorship #InfluencerInLaws
She felt better. Until she came downstairs for breakfast the next day and found her face on a printed banner stuck to the fridge: “Shudh Dadi Hing’s Digital Star!”
Rohan sat at the table, spooning cornflakes silently.
“Don’t look at me,” he said. “I’m the side character in this ad. You’re the digestive heroine.”
Tanya poured her chai with trembling hands. “We need a divorce. From content.”
But things only escalated.
Indira aunty was now in full-blown Reel Renaissance mode. She woke up at 6 AM to shoot golden-hour walking scenes in the society garden. She installed fairy lights on the washing machine and recorded “laundry hacks with vibes.” She even began attending “Reelster Yoga,” a class combining breathing and trending audio captions.
“You know what’s sad?” Rohan muttered one evening as Tanya smeared clay on her face in an effort to stay offline. “We used to be a normal family. Now Ma says things like, ‘Quick, say something relatable!’ every time someone sneezes.”
That night, the final straw arrived: Reel Rewind: Anniversary Edition.
Indira aunty released a retrospective reel of Rohan and Tanya’s married life. It included:
- Tanya eating ice cream in pajamas (captioned “Emotional eater, emotional lover”)
- Rohan picking his nose while half-asleep (“Unfiltered love”)
- A clip of them fighting about toothpaste orientation (“Left or right? Marriage is compromise”)
And worst of all, a slowed-down zoom on Tanya’s face while she adjusted her bra strap, captioned: “Even goddesses fix their crowns.”
Tanya screamed into the pillow again.
She didn’t even lift her head when Rohan said, “Ma’s planning a YouTube channel next. She’s calling it ‘Malhotra Moments: Reel. Real. Raw.’”
By 11 PM, Tanya posted:
Image: A dramatic Bollywood heroine fainting on a divan.
Caption: “If I vanish, tell the cops to check the drafts folder of Malhotras.In.Unison.”
Hashtags: #FreeTheBahu #StopTheShoot #MyPrivacyMyChoice
But as her account grew (15K followers now), so did the pressure. DMs flooded in. Brands reached out, ironically asking if she’d “collab as a meme DIL.” Her inbox had messages like:
- “Can we send you turmeric? Just stand in your kitchen with a neutral face.”
• “How much do you charge for passive-aggressive mother-in-law memes?”
Tanya stared at them in disbelief. “I’m becoming the very thing I mocked.”
“You’re… an influencer,” Rohan whispered.
“No!” she gasped. “I’m a resistance account!”
“Babe. They’re offering you free non-stick pans. That’s influencer territory.”
She paced. “I need a reset. A moment of silence. A break from content, from reels, from engagement metrics.”
The next morning, she walked into the living room and declared: “We’re going off-grid this weekend. No reels. No stories. Just reality.”
Indira aunty stared at her. “But beta, we have our couple ghee tasting on Saturday!”
“POSTPONED,” Tanya barked. “We’re going to Lonavala. No WiFi. No brands. Just nature.”
The silence was deafening.
Rohan looked like he’d been pardoned from jail.
And so, with packed bags and zero ring lights, they left for a short escape.
Tanya stared out of the train window and sighed. “Finally, no content.”
But two hours later, as they sat on a grassy hillside, Rohan pointed quietly.
Indira aunty had uploaded a carousel titled: “How to Survive Without Your Favorite Bahu: 5 Tips For When They Go Off-Grid”
First photo: a selfie with her holding a “Miss You” placard.
Second: a screenshot of Tanya’s last seen timestamp circled in red.
Third: a reel teaser titled “Coming soon: Bahu Returns.”
Tanya didn’t cry.
She just opened her phone and posted one thing:
Image: A rock shaped like a potato.
Caption: “Still more emotionally stable than my family.”
Hashtag: #OfflineButNotUnaware
Viral Sanskaar Syndrome
When Tanya and Rohan returned from their reel-free Lonavala escape, they found the house cleaner than they’d left it—eerily cleaner. The cushions were fluffed. The incense sticks had all burned in perfect symmetry. The fridge had nothing but detox water and motivational Post-its saying things like “Joy is a reusable tiffin” and “Smile, the algorithm is watching.”
“What… happened here?” Rohan whispered, peering at a sanitized kitchen.
Tanya sniffed the air. “Is that… eucalyptus oil? Are we living in a sponsored meditation reel?”
Just then, Indira aunty floated in. Yes, floated. Draped in a flowing peach saree, with a pastel dupatta pinned like a halo and soft instrumental music playing from somewhere unknown.
“Welcome back, my dear children,” she said in a tranquil tone. “I am practicing Sanskaar Mindfulness™. I only speak in brand-safe affirmations now.”
Rohan looked alarmed. “Is that a real thing?”
“I invented it,” she replied, gesturing toward a freshly laminated mood board titled ‘Content With Contentment’. Each section featured color-coded affirmations: Eat Reels Pray, Live Laugh Log In, and Brand Before Bread.
Tanya dropped her bag. “Ma, are you okay? This seems… cult adjacent.”
“I’m simply aligning my inner influencer. I’ve joined a spiritual content creators’ WhatsApp group. We send each other emojis to check in.”
“Like good morning messages?”
“No. Like, just one emoji. If you feel seen, send a 🍵. If you feel lost, send a 🪔. If you’re ready to go viral, you send the sacred 🔥.”
Rohan took a deep breath. “Ma, we need to talk.”
“Is it about the Hot Yoga With Hing reel?”
“What?”
“Oh no wait—that drops tomorrow.”
Tanya sat down heavily. “Ma, I love you. But this is out of control. You have followers DM-ing my coworkers asking if I use ‘divine dishwasher detergent.’ My office chaiwala showed me your reel on Soothing Chai Sounds for Busy Bahus.”
Indira’s eyes sparkled. “People love authenticity.”
“It wasn’t authentic! It was a stock tea pour sound with a sitar overlay!”
“Beta, you can’t always brew reality. Sometimes you steep fiction.”
Tanya buried her face in her hands.
Rohan said gently, “Ma, why don’t you take a break? Like, a digital detox?”
“But I’ve just joined a contest! ‘India’s Next Top Saasfluencer.’ If I win, I get to host a panel with Neena Gupta and receive a year’s supply of turmeric latte mix!”
Tanya muttered, “That sounds like punishment, not a prize.”
Just then, her phone buzzed.
@InLawsUnfiltered
New Follower: @IndiaTVOfficial
Her heart dropped. “Oh no.”
Rohan looked over her shoulder. “You’ve been discovered.”
Minutes later, a message arrived:
“Hi Tanya, this is Anvi from IndiaTV’s ‘Reel-Life Realities’ segment. We’d love to interview you about your hilarious account. Can you speak on how joint family life fuels content creation?”
Tanya stared blankly. “It’s happening. I’m becoming content about making content about becoming content.”
She was mid-panic when Indira aunty’s voice floated into the room:
“Did you know I used to act in school plays? I was the lead tomato in our vegetable drama. Destiny always finds the spotlight.”
Tanya stood up. “Okay. Enough. I am reclaiming my narrative.”
She opened @InLawsUnfiltered and posted:
Image: A woman in curlers chasing a flying dupatta across a terrace.
Caption: “I am not an aesthetic. I am a tired woman with a tangled saree and a broken geyser.”
Hashtags: #ReluctantReelStar #BahuWithBoundaries #StopTheSpin
The post exploded. 25K likes in four hours. Comments poured in:
• “Finally! A real voice!”
• “My MIL wants to cast me in a detergent ad. HELP.”
• “This page deserves a National Award.”
Rohan clapped. “This is your moment. Say no to reels. Say yes to rebellion.”
But before she could savor the win, a video began circulating on WhatsApp.
It was a leaked reel—unedited footage from Hot Yoga With Hing.
Indira aunty doing Surya Namaskar while yelling, “Feel the detox!”
Cut to: Tanya coughing in the background, holding the camera and muttering, “This is my villain origin story.”
Tanya stared in horror. “WHO uploaded this?”
A new notification popped up:
@SanskariSpillPage tagged you in a post
Caption: “Bahu on the brink. We’ve all been there. #PrayForTanya”
Her phone was blowing up.
Then came the real twist.
A brand reached out. Not just any brand—ChillChilla Mattresses.
They wanted Tanya to be the face of their new line: “Bahu Breaks: Because even content queens need to rest.”
They offered a generous fee and full creative freedom.
Tanya stared at the email. “Rohan… I think I just got influencer-ified.”
He looked proud. “Only you could start a rebellion and end up with a mattress deal.”
Indira aunty peered in from the hallway. “You got a brand deal? Oh beta! My papaya got you there. I always knew it was lucky.”
Tanya laughed, maybe for the first time in days. “Fine, Ma. Let’s make one reel together. Just one. But on my terms.”
Indira clapped like a child. “Yay! Should I wear the saree with the lemons or the one with the WiFi symbols?”
Tanya pointed. “Neither. You’re wearing pajamas.”
The next day, a new reel appeared.
Visual: Tanya and Indira lying flat on a ChillChilla mattress, both in messy buns and oversized tees, holding cups of tea.
Caption: “Some days, we don’t shoot. We just nap.”
Hashtags: #NapOverClap #BahuNapClub #MattressMatters
It went viral.
Even papaya felt validated.
The Saasfluencer Summit
Tanya never thought she’d hear the words “gift hamper” and “spiritual relevance” used in the same sentence. But there she was, sitting in the audience at the Saasfluencer Summit 2025, surrounded by 200 women in sarees, each holding ring lights, phone stands, and free turmeric face packs, all nodding solemnly as a keynote speaker said, “Reels are not just content. Reels are karma in motion.”
Next to her, Indira aunty was furiously scribbling notes in a glittery notebook labeled #Goals. Her eyes were wide with inspiration. Her gold earrings shimmered every time she nodded, which was roughly every six seconds.
Tanya had tagged along purely for damage control. After all, it was Indira who’d been nominated for “Emerging Saas of the Year”, thanks to her papaya reel trilogy and a now-iconic series on morally healthy chutneys.
The event hall was air-conditioned to Himalayan standards, and the main stage featured a neon backdrop that said: “Sanskars. Sass. Subscribers.”
On stage, a heavily filtered influencer named Pooja_unfiltered was saying, “If your bahu isn’t featured in your stories, are you even vibing as a family?”
Tanya whispered to Rohan on the phone: “This place is like Comic-Con, but with more bindis and less logic.”
Rohan whispered back, “Just breathe. Think of this as exposure therapy.”
Meanwhile, Indira aunty was in her zone. She’d already participated in two panel discussions:
- “How to Cook, Cry, and Create Content Simultaneously”
- “Hashtag Healing: Finding Inner Peace in the Comments Section”
She also signed up for an exclusive workshop: “Going Live Without Losing Your Mind.”
Tanya was trying to hide behind a potted plant when a perky MC called out, “Next up, a very special surprise! The anonymous creator of the viral @InLawsUnfiltered account is here with us today!”
Tanya froze. Indira’s head whipped around so fast her bindi nearly flew off.
“Beta…?”
Tanya slowly stood up. Microphone. Spotlight. Betrayal.
She was ushered to the stage like a contestant on a cooking reality show—except instead of holding a spatula, she was clutching a mug that said #BahuAndBeyond.
The moderator smiled. “Tell us, Tanya—when did you realize your pain was actually… profitable?”
The crowd laughed. Tanya didn’t.
She took a breath. “Honestly? I never set out to be funny. I was just… drowning in chutney captions and reels about gas. I needed somewhere to scream without actually screaming.”
A few aunties clapped. One murmured, “Same, beta.”
“But then something strange happened. I realized I wasn’t alone. Every DM I got said the same thing: Thank you for making this madness feel normal. And weirdly, that felt… comforting.”
More applause. Even Indira was blinking back emotion.
The moderator leaned in. “What would you say to the other bahus in the room?”
Tanya smiled. “Reclaim your narrative. One meme at a time. Also, never let anyone upload a papaya reel without consent.”
Thunderous applause. A selfie with the audience. A free hamper of essential oils and emoji stickers.
Later, in the green room, Indira came in quietly. “Beta, you could’ve told me.”
“I was scared you’d be hurt.”
“I was. For five minutes. Then I saw your post about the pressure cooker. I laughed so hard I spilled tea on your father’s pension papers.”
They sat in silence. Then Indira added, “You know, I started posting because I didn’t know what else to do after retirement. Your papa watches cricket all day. I wanted… purpose.”
Tanya softened. “I get it. I just… wanted space. That’s all.”
Indira nodded. “Fine. From now on, I ask before posting. And you… you teach me memes.”
Tanya extended a hand. “Deal.”
The summit ended with a “Reel Round Dance”—200 women spinning to a remix of “Radha on the Dance Floor” while their phones filmed from every possible angle.
Indira nailed it. Tanya pretended to forget the steps. Balance.
Back home, they posted their first co-authored reel.
Visual: Tanya sitting on the sofa holding a “Not Now, Ma” placard.
Indira pops up behind her with a “Too Late!” one.
They burst into laughter.
Caption: “Boundaries and bonding—some days we manage both.”
Hashtags: #BahuSaasBalance #PeaceWithPapaya #ChutneyChronicles
Even Rohan liked the post without being prompted.
And for the first time, Tanya didn’t feel like the joke.
She felt like part of the punchline.
Meme Therapy Mondays
Monday mornings used to be Tanya’s quiet time. A warm mug of chai, a notebook with at least six unfinished ideas, and precisely twenty-three minutes of procrastination before logging into her work laptop.
But that was before Meme Therapy Mondays.
It started as a joke. A one-time post on @InLawsUnfiltered where Tanya uploaded a bingo card titled “Joint Family Emotional Bingo.” Squares included:
- Passive-aggressive comments over salt
- Emotional blackmail via WhatsApp forwards
- “When are you giving us good news?”
- Mysterious disappearance of Tupperware lids
- MIL referring to you in third person while you’re in the room
She captioned it: “If you get five in a row, you get the prize of going into the bathroom and crying in silence. #MemeTherapyMondays”
By 10 a.m., the post had gone viral. Not just in her DIL echo chamber, but across auntie groups, office colleagues’ group chats, and even a startup founder in Pune who messaged: “I printed this and framed it next to my mother-in-law’s cooking certificate.”
By lunchtime, Tanya’s inbox was full of confessions. Screenshots. Doodles. One woman from Surat sent in a homemade “Emotional Jenga” version of the meme.
And that’s when Tanya had an idea.
What if she didn’t just meme about her chaos… but started processing it?
She called it “content catharsis.” A way to deal with reality using fiction that felt truer than truth.
That evening, she approached Indira aunty.
“Ma, want to try something new?”
Indira, now the proud owner of a tripod, two saree ring lights, and a collapsible green screen, lit up. “What is it, beta? Dance challenge? Kitchen lip sync?”
“No,” Tanya smiled. “A therapy reel. Raw. Real. Relatable.”
Indira looked suspicious. “Are we… crying?”
“No, but we are confessing. One truth each. Candid. No filters.”
And so it began. A simple 30-second reel. Just the two of them on the balcony.
Tanya: “Sometimes, I pretend to be asleep to avoid discussing dinner menus.”
Indira: “Sometimes, I pretend I can’t sleep so you’ll feel guilty and make halwa.”
They both burst out laughing.
Caption: “This is our love language: Pretend. Passive. Playful.”
Hashtag: #MemeTherapyMondays
The comments were an outpouring of laughter and shared pain.
“I pretend to drop the spoon to delay pooja!”
“I fake stomachaches to skip paratha duty!”
“Sometimes I blink in Morse code when relatives overstay!”
Tanya felt a shift. Something between honesty and healing. Maybe, for the first time, the memes weren’t just sarcasm—they were survival.
But of course, not everything was smooth.
The next week, Indira decided to “take initiative” and launch her own segment: “Tuesday Truth Bombs With Ma.”
It began harmlessly:
“Tanya cannot make round rotis. But she says they have personality.”
Fine.
“Tanya told a guest that I snore like a bear. I do. But that’s not public info.”
Okay.
“Once I caught Tanya watching Netflix instead of working. I offered her chai.”
Tanya stared at the reel.
“You exposed me to the entire internet.”
Indira grinned. “It’s relatable!”
Tanya posted a passive-aggressive response:
Image: A cartoon bear snoring in a sari.
Caption: “This is me. I snore. I love. I overshare. #BearWithIt”
Meanwhile, Rohan had slowly begun to accept his role as collateral.
His face now appeared in the background of reels, unshaven and baffled, holding laundry baskets or holding debates with Alexa.
One reel captioned:
“My husband thinks sorting socks counts as foreplay. Pray for me.”
Got him featured in a meme page titled #HusbandsInTheWild.
Tanya gave him a concerned pat. “You okay?”
He nodded. “I’ve made peace. I’m a side character with soft lighting. As long as no one zooms in on my pajama holes, I’m fine.”
But the real twist came when Tanya received an email from a publishing house.
Subject: Let’s Make This a Book?
The message read:
“We love the humor and heart in @InLawsUnfiltered. Would you consider turning this into an illustrated book on modern Indian family chaos? Think memes meet memoir meets mirch masala.”
Tanya dropped her phone.
“I might be getting a book deal.”
Rohan blinked. “From snoring and halwa to hardcover?”
“Yes!”
She stared out the window. “What started as screaming into the void might become… something bigger.”
Indira peeked in. “Beta, should I order more haldi for our next collaboration? Also, I bought matching pajamas for our next reel. Pastel, very healing.”
Tanya smiled. “Sure, Ma. But only if I get co-creator credit.”
They high-fived.
That night, a new reel dropped.
Visual: Tanya, Rohan, and Indira dancing in the living room to an old Govinda song. Badly. Gleefully. Authentically.
Caption: “Some families heal through therapy. Some through memes. We use both.”
Hashtag: #FamilyFilterOff #HealedButHilarious #MemeTherapyMondays
It was her most shared post yet.
Post, Pause, Repeat
It was the last week of July and Mumbai was flooded—both literally and digitally.
Outside, rain poured with the kind of ferocity that turned roads into rivers. Inside, Tanya sat in her pyjamas, one leg folded under her, laptop open, surrounded by chai, half a papaya, and thirty unread DMs. Her meme account @InLawsUnfiltered had crossed 100K followers. Verified. Brand deals. Interview requests. Book contract nearly signed.
But she wasn’t posting.
She was pausing.
“Writer’s block?” Rohan asked, walking in with two mugs of steaming tea.
“No,” Tanya replied, “Meme fatigue. Everyone wants funny. But I feel… full.”
Rohan nodded. “Take a break. Or better—take it offline.”
Just then, Indira aunty appeared at the door with a ring light in one hand and a yoga mat in the other. “Beta, quick idea! What if we do Hot Yoga in Humid Monsoon Conditions? Think drenched, dramatic, divine!”
Tanya smiled gently. “Ma, I’m logging out for a bit.”
Indira paused. “Did someone send hate? Is it about the moong dal reel again?”
“No. It’s just… I need to find the story behind the story. Before I become a punchline I can’t rewrite.”
There was silence. And then—something unexpected.
Indira nodded. “I get it.”
“You do?”
“I started posting reels because I didn’t know who I was after retirement. Then it became my identity. But sometimes, I wonder what I’d post if I didn’t care what anyone thought.”
Tanya blinked.
“You mean—no captions, no hashtags?”
“No filters,” Indira smiled. “Just breath. And maybe halwa.”
Tanya felt her eyes sting. “That’s the most influencer thing you’ve ever said.”
“I know,” Indira said, wiping an invisible tear. “I almost posted it.”
That evening, the family sat together in the drawing room, no cameras, no ring lights, just rain lashing against the window and a half-played board game on the floor. Rohan hummed old Bollywood songs under his breath. Indira flipped through a magazine. Tanya wrote in her notebook.
At 9:03 PM, she opened Instagram. Not to post. Just to read.
DM from a girl in Indore: “Thank you for saying what we feel but never say out loud.”
Another from Dubai: “Your memes helped me talk to my MIL. Now we laugh at your page together.”
A voice note from someone’s dad: “Beta, I don’t know what meme means, but I liked your pressure cooker joke.”
Tanya smiled.
And then, almost instinctively, she tapped “Create Post.”
Image: A pair of chappals at the door, soaked by the rain but placed neatly together.
Caption: “Even when it pours, we wait at the door. For peace. For patience. For pav bhaji.”
Hashtags: #PauseBeforePost #FromMemeToMeaning #SaasBahuSoulTime
She hit share.
No expectations. No metrics.
Just a moment.
The next morning, she woke up to chai in bed, a handwritten note from Indira—“Let’s write the book together?”—and Rohan doing laundry voluntarily (albeit badly).
And that evening, on a whim, Tanya filmed something new. No dialogue. Just Indira making chai, Rohan rearranging spoons in strange OCD ways, and Tanya placing a potted plant on the windowsill.
Caption: “Welcome to the family. We’re still figuring it out.”
The comments said: “This made me cry.”
“Can I come over?”
“This is not content. This is comfort.”
Tanya smiled.
She hadn’t just gone viral.
She’d gone human.
And for once, that felt like the best story of all.
