Toast and Sass

A Room of One’s Own (and the Many Ways to Claim It)

On the morning of January 25th, Maya, Mrigaya, and Mangala Aunty gathered at Maya’s kitchen table, sipping filter coffee and nibbling on homemade chakli. It was Mangala Auntie’s idea to mark the occasion—it was Virginia Woolf’s birthday, and the day was internationally celebrated as *A Room of One’s Own*. 

“Room? What room? I don’t even have half a shelf to myself,” Maya grumbled, stirring her coffee with the vigour of someone battling a week’s worth of irritation. “My daughter thinks the vegetable basket is a great place to store her art supplies. I’m finding glitter in the onions.” 

Mrigaya rolled her eyes. “I feel you. My so-called study is now a shrine to clutter. There’s my husband’s gym gloves, my dog’s leash, and a rogue cricket bat. Forget writing; I don’t even have room to breathe.” 

Mangala Aunty adjusted her perfectly draped cotton saree, her eyes twinkling with the wisdom of someone who had seen it all. “You two are amateurs,” she said, her tone delightfully smug. “Last month, I was sharing a house with my son, daughter-in-law, three grandchildren, two Labradors, and enough unsolicited advice to last me a lifetime. So, guess what I did?” 

“What?” Maya and Mrigaya leaned in, expecting something outrageous. 

“I packed my bags, booked an Uber, and moved into *Vasanta Vihar Seniors’ Paradise*,” Mangala Aunty declared with a flourish. 

“WHAT?” they chorused, nearly spilling their coffee. 

“Oh yes. Two-bedroom flat, balcony overlooking a park, yoga at dawn, and canteen meals I don’t have to cook. It’s bliss.” She paused for effect. “The best part? I have a door *with a lock*. No one barges in asking for snacks or lost socks.” 

“But what about your son?” Mrigaya asked. 

Mangala Aunty sighed theatrically. “Ah, my dear boy. He ‘insisted, I couldn’t manage on my own. Started calling every day, asking if I’d eaten, slept, or fallen off the balcony.” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “Then one fine day, he shows up with a list—yes, a ‘list’—of things I should be doing to ‘stay safe.’ No Zumba. No late-night walks. No spending too much time on the balcony because apparently, pigeons carry diseases.” 

Maya gasped. “What did you do?” 

“I told him to *buzz off*,” Mangala Aunty said, clapping her hands together in triumph. “I said, ‘Listen, beta, I raised you, I survived three decades of government service, and I can handle a pigeon or two.’ Haven’t heard a peep from him since. Now he just sends fruit baskets and WhatsApp forwards about turmeric being the cure for everything.” 

The three women dissolved into laughter. 

Inspired by Mangala Auntie’s audacity, Maya and Mrigaya decided it was time to reclaim their own spaces in their own ways. 

Maya signed up for a desk at a co-working space. On her first day, she sent a photo to the group chat: “Sitting by the window, laptop open, and no one yelling ‘MOM!’ Pure bliss.”* 

Mrigaya booked herself a solo ticket to a women’s convention. Later that evening, she texted a selfie from a restaurant, grinning next to a friend .”Dinner with handsome hunk” 

Mangala Aunty, meanwhile, continued to thrive at Vasanta Vihar. One morning, she texted the group: *“Tried Zumba again. Remembered I have knees halfway through. They were very upset.”* 

As the day wound down, the three women raised virtual toasts to each other. 

“To Virginia Woolf,” said Mangala Aunty. 

“To personal space,” added Maya. 

“And to the rooms we build for ourselves,” concluded Mrigaya. 

The best part? Their families survived just fine. Maya’s husband learned to pack his own lunch. Mrigaya’ s daughters started picking up after themselves. And Mangala Auntie’s son, though still slightly bewildered, sent her a voice note: *“Amma, the house is quieter without you… but we’ll manage. Don’t rush back.”* 

And for the first time in ages, all three women felt like they had a little corner of the world to call their own.