She is annoying, but she is also the reason most of us have manners. You might hate her for telling you to stand up when an elder enters the room, but a decade later, you will thank her.

Her weapon of choice is the jhappi —a suffocating, warm, oily embrace that smells of mustard oil and rosewater. Her other weapon is shame. I remember wearing ripped jeans to a family gathering. Aunty Shireen didn't scold me. She simply looked at the tear in the denim, then at my mother, and whispered loudly, "Arre, is she turning into a katchra bin?" The room laughed. I burned with humiliation. But later that night, she pulled me aside, pressed a twenty-dollar bill into my palm, and said, "Don't tell your mother. Buy proper pants. You have good legs, don't ruin them with holes." That is the genius of the Desi Aunty: she destroys your ego and rebuilds it in the same breath.