Some people manage companies, others manage households, but a select few of us manage the family chat. Frankly, the role deserves a salary, annual leave. And also, most importantly, a formal performance appraisal.

The day begins before sunrise with the soft buzz of a phone vibrating under a pillow. At 6:04 am sharp, an explosion of roses, sunrises, and glittering Good Morning GIFs arrives. This is not a greeting. It is a ritual. A digital aarti. Failure to respond with at least one folded hands emoji results in being flagged as emotionally unstable.

By 8 am, the group is in full swing. Someone shares a home remedy to cure everything from hair fall to heartbreak using haldi and warm water. An uncle forwards a political message in all caps that looks like it was typed while wrestling with the keyboard. A cousin drops a motivational quote clearly written by someone who has never met our family.

Your role is delicate. You are the Diplomat. You cannot ignore the miracle cure because Chachi might try it and blame you for her lack of progress. You cannot react too enthusiastically to the political forward because Mamaji will take it as an invitation to send a two hour voice note. You cannot correct the fake news because that invites the dreaded question: “So you think you know better than your elders?” Instead, you deploy the safest weapon in modern communication. The neutral emoji. A thumbs up. A folded hands. Occasionally, if you are feeling brave, a smiling face. This is survival strategy.

By afternoon, a blurred photo of a distant relative’s neighbour’s daughter’s engagement appears. You are expected to identify every stranger in the frame and respond with appropriate enthusiasm. Any lapse in participation will be noted and discussed at the next family wedding.

Then come the moral lectures. Out of nowhere, an aunt posts a manifesto about how children these days do not respect tradition and do not visit, call, or eat enough. You read this while sitting in traffic, juggling work calls, and wondering if you are the specific target of this digital sermon.

The irony is that we have never been more connected. We know what everyone had for breakfast, their blood pressure readings, and every vacation selfie. Yet, when we actually meet, we sit in awkward circles scrolling through the very group that keeps us close. The WhatsApp group has replaced the long Sunday phone call and the slow conversation over tea. Digital closeness is efficient, loud, and constant. It is also slightly exhausting.

Yet, here is the inconvenient truth. The day the group goes silent, even for a few hours, you feel restless. You check your phone to ensure everyone is okay. That relentless stream of roses and remedies is reassurance. It means the elders woke up. It means the cousins are fine. It means the family, in its chaotic forwarded glory, is intact.

Managing this group requires diplomacy, humour, patience, and strong WiFi. But beneath the GIFs and the warnings about plastic rice lies something stubbornly tender. In our own noisy, emoji heavy way, we are saying what Indian families have always said. We are here. Have you eaten?

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