Every Indian family has a WhatsApp group. Correction. Every Indian family has at least three. One for the immediate family, one for the extended family and one that nobody remembers joining but is somehow discussing a second cousin’s engagement in Kolkata.
Mine probably began with the best of intentions. Share photographs. Stay connected. Wish everyone on birthdays. Check in on grandparents.
Within months, it had evolved into a digital joint family where nobody agreed on anything except that every sunrise deserved a “Good Morning” message featuring roses, waterfalls and enough glitter to embarrass a disco ball.
My grandmother never said “Good morning” to anyone before she’d had her tea. Now she receives fourteen before breakfast. The family WhatsApp group has its own ecosystem. Somebody is always forwarding medical advice that sounds suspiciously magical. Drink turmeric. Don’t drink turmeric. Walk 10,000 steps. Walking is overrated.
A mysterious doctor in Germany has apparently discovered that eating soaked almonds while facing east can solve everything from acidity to existential dread. Nobody knows who this doctor is. He is surprisingly influential.
Then there’s that one uncle who treats every forwarded message like a constitutional amendment. Within minutes, a fact-check appears, complete with links, screenshots and mild disappointment in humanity. Nobody reads it. The original message has already travelled to six other family groups.
And then there are birthdays. At exactly midnight, the group explodes. Animated cakes. Dancing balloons. Sparkling flowers. Music that begins at a volume usually reserved for political rallies. Hidden somewhere between twenty-seven GIFs is one message from an elderly aunt that simply says, “Bless you. Be happy.” Oddly enough, that’s the one you remember.
The real entertainment, however, begins when someone accidentally presses the video call button. Nobody answers. Everybody panics. The person who started it has no idea they’ve started it.
Within seconds, the group resembles a control room during a space mission.
“Who called?”
“I didn’t.”
“Please disconnect.”
“It’s still ringing.”
Eventually, silence returns. Nobody mentions it again.
Perhaps the greatest achievement of the family WhatsApp group is that it has eliminated the concept of private information.
Buy a new pressure cooker in Pune and an uncle in Guwahati knows before your neighbour does. Mention you’re travelling and five people will remind you to carry medicines, eat on time, beware of pickpockets and call after reaching. Not because they don’t trust you. Because worrying is the family love language.
Of course, we complain. We mute the group for a year. We threaten to leave after the fifteenth “Good Morning”. We roll our eyes at another blurry photograph of someone’s lunch. And yet, none of us actually leaves.
Because somewhere between the miracle cures, cricket debates, wedding invitations, recipes, political arguments and badly cropped festival greetings, something rather old-fashioned is quietly happening.
People are checking on one another. Nobody says, “I miss you.” Instead, they ask, “Reached?” Nobody says, “I’m worried.” They ask, “Had lunch?” Nobody says, “I’m thinking of you.” They forward a photograph of Lord Ganesha at 6.12 in the morning.
It’s wonderfully inefficient. Slightly chaotic. Frequently ridiculous. Rather like the Indian family itself. Technology promised to connect the world.
Instead, it recreated the living room… complete with that uncle who has an opinion on everything, the aunt who insists everyone eat more, and the grandparents who somehow manage to say the least while meaning the most. If that’s not family, I don’t know what is.
