At eighty-two, Shantibai Mehta had only two goals in life—keep her blood pressure low, and keep her grandson Rohan fed. She wasn’t much interested in what the world was doing, but she was deeply invested in what Rohan was eating. Her Sunday afternoons were reserved for their sacred video calls, where she’d squint at the screen and scold him for looking like “a dried bhindi.”
That Sunday, as usual, she picked up her new smartphone—a slim, shiny beast that she still believed was more complicated than her pressure cooker—and tapped Rohan’s name with the kind of determination reserved for cleaning silverware before Diwali.
Unfortunately, she didn’t press "Call."
She pressed “Go Live.”
The phone chirped and began recording. Unaware that she was now streaming live to Instagram, Shantibai squinted at the front camera and grumbled, “Aree, Rohan? Where are you? This phone is worse than a fridge remote. Nothing works properly.”
Then, setting the phone down—accidentally propped up at the perfect angle facing her kitchen—she got to work.
“Today I’m making karela. Bitter gourd. If you don’t like it, don’t eat. Even your father cried over it when he was your age—such a drama queen.”
She slammed the karela down on the chopping board with the force of a butcher settling a personal grudge. Behind her, the pressure cooker let out a whistle like it was trying to warn someone.
She chopped and talked. Talked and chopped.
“And Bindu from next door—hah! She said my sabzi has too much masala. Bindu, if you’re watching—your husband eats from my tiffin, okay? Tell that to your air fryer.”
It started with five viewers. Then ten. Then three hundred. Then someone shared it. Another clipped it. Within twenty minutes, over 30,000 people were watching.
Rohan, sitting in his college hostel, was working on an assignment when his phone buzzed.
Your Dadi is Live on Instagram.
He frowned.
“My Dadi doesn’t even know what Instagram is.”
He opened the app.
There she was. His grandmother. His flesh and blood. Live. Roasting karela and her neighbors. A wave of panic washed over him as she slammed the gas stove, yelling, “Why won’t you light? Don’t test me today!”
“DAAADIIIIII!” he typed in the comments.
No response.
“DAAAADI YOU’RE LIVE ON INSTAGRAM!!”
On screen, she leaned closer to the camera and blinked.
“Live? What live? Who’s dying? Rohan? Rohan, are you dying? Is it that girl again—what’s her name? Sneha? Sneaky?”
The stream abruptly ended.
But the damage was done.
By nightfall, her “sabzi and sass” session had gone viral. The clip of her line—“Tell that to your air fryer!”—was already a remix. She was trending on Twitter, quoted on meme pages, and even had her own nickname: Karela Queen.
The next morning, Rohan woke up to find 72 unread messages.
Your dadi is on BuzzFeed. Bro. Your grandma roasted Bindu harder than the karela. Tell her I want the bhindi recipe and the gossip.
It was only the beginning.
Soon, the world wanted more of Shantibai. Her followers grew faster than mushrooms in monsoon. People demanded more videos, more roasting, more karela.
Rohan surrendered.
He taught her how to film on purpose. Not that it helped much.
Every time she went live, it was chaos. She’d adjust the camera by banging it against the wall. She’d yell at the onion for making her cry, threaten to beat the stove with her slipper, and share unsolicited life advice with viewers while making perfectly spiced, utterly dramatic dishes.
She didn’t just cook anymore—she performed.
“I made this pulao last week and Bindu’s daughter said it was bland. The same daughter who failed Class 9. Hmph.”
She had segments now. Her fans named them.
"Sabzi & Sass" was the cooking and gossip portion.
"Bindu’s Corner" was her impromptu Q&A session, where she read imaginary letters from her "fans," all signed “Bindu.”
Sometimes she even paused mid-recipe to deliver pearls of ancient wisdom: “Never trust a man who eats khichdi without papad.”
Her channel crossed one million subscribers. Then two.
She was invited to a reality cooking show. They gave her a green room with snacks and makeup and a nervous assistant who asked, “Ma’am, would you like to say something to the audience?”
Shantibai adjusted her pallu, looked into the camera, and said:
“If your karela is bitter, fry it with confidence. And if Bindu’s watching—hello darling, I made it before you. Again.”
The crowd roared.
Rohan stood backstage, clapping like a proud parent at a school play. She looked at him later, as she removed her mic, and whispered, “Don’t tell anyone... I still don’t know what Wi-Fi is.”
Months passed.
She launched her own spice mix line. Released a cookbook titled “Masala, Mic, and Madness.” She had fan clubs, merchandise, and even a Spotify podcast called “Dadi Talks, You Listen.”
Rohan finally stopped complaining about karela. Not because he liked it—but because he was too scared the internet would find out.
And as for Bindu?
She moved to Bangalore.
Some say out of shame.
Some say to escape the fame.
But Shantibai? She just smiled and said, “Poor thing. She couldn't handle the heat… in the kitchen or online.”
