The Existential Dread of WhatsApp Family Groups

 

 Where emojis go to die, good mornings multiply, and your soul quietly withers

 

The Morning Message Apocalypse

“GOOD MORNING  HAVE A BLESSED DAY!”

It’s 6:01 a.m., and your phone buzzes like it’s trying to warn you about an incoming asteroid. But no, it’s just Auntie #4 sending her 478th consecutive motivational GIF — a glittering rose with “Life is Beautiful” slapped across it in Comic Sans.

Welcome to the existential purgatory of WhatsApp family groups.

The Birthplace of Dread: How It All Begins

It usually starts innocently. A cousin creates a “Family Forever ” group to plan a wedding planning or Diwali potluck coordination. It serves its purpose briefly. Then the event ends. But the group doesn’t.

No, it evolves. Like fungus.

Before you know it, there are 23 members:

•  8 who never talk
•  5 who only send forwards
• 1 who mistakes the group for their personal diary
• And you, questioning your existence while scrolling through sunrise montages 

The Routine of Rituals

Morning Mayhem

You wake up to a barrage of “Good morning” messages. Not one, not two—but dozens. They are all eerily similar:

• A sunrise over a lake.

• A flower blooming in slow motion.

• A baby laughing while the Gayatri Mantra plays in the background.

Sometimes it’s philosophical:

“Each morning we are born again. What we do today is what matters most.” – Buddha

It’s barely 7 a.m., and you already feel like you've lived through three lifetime and 12 spiritual awakenings.

The Forwards That Time Forgot

Let’s take a moment to honor the warriors who believe any information is worth sharing, as long as it’s old, inaccurate, or completely irrelevant.

• “Drink hot water with lemon to cure everything from acne to heartbreak”

• “Forward this to 11 people and your luck will change by 6 p.m. 

• “NASA confirms: Earth will go completely dark for 6 days in November. Be prepared”

You try to debunk them. You post a link from WHO . But your Uncle replies with:

“Beta, you have become too western. Learn to trust Ayurveda.”

The irony is so thick you could spread it on toast. i question my career, my life and even my vaccine shots.

The Silent Spectators 

There are always a few who never participate. Ever.

You wonder:

Are they okay? Do they silently scream every time they see the group light up?

Are they still in the group voluntarily? Or is this their personal form of punishment?

They don’t respond, don’t leave, don’t react. They’ve reached Zen. Or maybe they’ve just muted the group forever, they have achieved Digital Nirvana. You envy them and aspire to their level of inner peace.

Passive-Aggressive Pandemonium

No family gathering is complete without light drama, and WhatsApp groups are no exception.

• Auntie #2: “Some people don’t even acknowledge the good morning. Basic manners are gone.”

• Cousin #7: leaves the group

• Uncle #1: “Let’s not fight. Life is short. Here’s a video of a cat singing Om Jai Jagdish Hare.”

The digital silence afterward is louder than any screaming match.

The Exit That Can Never Happen

Here’s the cruel joke: You can check out anytime you like, but you can never really leave.

Because the day you exit the group, three things happen:

1. You’re added back within minutes.

2. You get three calls asking if everything is okay at home.

3. You’re now the family rebel who “thinks they’re too good for us.”

So instead, you suffer. Quietly. Stewing in unread messages and emotional GIFs.

Why We Stay

Despite it all—the cringey quotes, the blurry screenshots, the unsolicited health advice—something odd keeps us tethered.

It’s not just guilt. It’s love wrapped in digital dysfunction. A bizarre blend of tradition, obligation, and that deeply human need to stay connected, even if it’s through a forwarded picture of Lord Ganesha dancing on a lotus.

You might mute it. You might roll your eyes. But you’ll never truly leave.

Because at the end of the day, they’re your people. Annoying, overbearing, emoji-abusing—but yours.

If Dante had written The Divine Comedy today, one of the circles of Hell would absolutely be The WhatsApp Family Group.

Until then, just keep calm and reply with .

 Been scarred by a WhatsApp family group? Drop your funniest story in the comments—or just forward this blog to your own group and watch the fireworks. 

How I Wish I Had a Sister!

 

Growing up in the seventies and eighties, our wardrobes had a simple logic—two types of clothes: one for home, and the other, bahar pahenne wale kapde—the designated outfits for going out. These weren’t ‘party wear’ in today’s sense of glitter and brands. A ‘party’ back then could be anything—your cousin’s wedding, a neighbor’s birthday, or a family function. And wearing those special clothes was a treat in itself.

Getting new clothes was a carefully timed event. If there was a wedding in the extended family—say, a maasi, mama, or chachu getting married—you might just get lucky. But even then, it depended on your pecking order among your same-gender siblings. If you were the eldest, good for you. If not, you probably ended up with someone else’s hand-me-downs.

And we, believe it or not, didn’t really mind it. Not until someone (read: a sibling seeking revenge for some petty fight) decided to remind you loudly at a gathering that your ‘new’ dress was, in fact, their old one. Sometimes, this cruel reminder would be delivered with a smirk, a pointed finger, or worse, in front of friends. It stung, but you couldn’t really complain. That was just how it was.

As the only girl among four siblings, I initially thought I had hit the jackpot. While my youngest brother wore hand-me-downs from the older two, I had my own set of clothes—no sharing, no fighting. I used to secretly thank God for not giving me a sister. Imagine sharing clothes with another girl, I thought. Or worse, handing over my favorites once I’d outgrown them.

But that gratitude didn’t last long.

Being the only female child came with its own strange setbacks. Clothes, for instance, were considered a wasteful investment when there was no one to inherit them later. My mother would say with a practical air, “If only you had a younger sister, we wouldn’t mind buying more. But these go to waste once you outgrow them. So, let’s buy just one now, we’ll get another next time.”

And that “next time” was always just… next time.

I still remember sulking quietly after one such verdict. That day, the desire for a sister was very real.

But the feeling hit its peak during birthday parties. Those get-togethers were beautifully modest—homemade kheer, halwa, or gulab jamun; potato chips from a local bakery; orange squash or Rooh Afza; and lots of giggling over passing-the-parcel. The excitement started days before and built up like a festival.

So, when I got invited to a friend’s birthday, I was thrilled. Until the permission hurdle showed up.

My mother had one condition: “Take your youngest brother along.”

It was her default clause. If I wanted to go to any gathering, he had to accompany me as a mini bodyguard. He was small, clumsy, and sometimes afraid of the very stray dogs I’d be shielding him from. But my mother thought he was my security detail. And without agreeing to this arrangement, there was no party.

I didn’t want to take him. None of my friends ever dragged their brothers along. If only he were a she, I thought. Maybe I wouldn’t mind as much. Perhaps we could have matched dresses or shared secrets. Maybe I wouldn’t feel like I was babysitting.

But that wasn’t the case.

So, I gave in. I said yes, because a party with conditions was better than no party at all.

And that evening, as I adjusted the one carefully chosen dress I had for such occasions and looked at my brother trying to adapt his crooked belt, I sighed and thought, God, how I wish I had a sister.

Looking back now, I smile at the absurd logic of those days, the fairness of frugality, the unspoken sibling rivalries, and the strange companionship I shared with my tagalong brother.

I never did get that sister I longed for, but over time, I gained something else: stories worth telling. Stories stitched with fabric, old and new, borrowed and passed down—not just of clothes, but of a childhood lived richly, even in its simplicity.

And today, when I see siblings bickering or sharing outfits on Instagram, I still think wistfully, How I wish I had a sister! But then again, I had brothers, and that, in its own chaotic way, was a different adventure altogether.