Recently, I read about the furore over someone being called an aunty. One person who had barely stepped into her forties rebuffed the aunty tag! A section of the public sympathised with her, and slammed it as a classic example of “age-shaming”. But I felt neither indignation nor indifference — it simply brought a smile to my face and revived a cache of memories three decades old.
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I entered the Indian Air Force fraternity as a bride when I was all of 23. While I was still attuning myself with its different but absolutely fascinating code of social conduct, I encountered what was probably the most startling experience of my fledgling married life. As a freshly hitched couple, we were invited to dinner by several fellow officers and seniors. During one such visit, after exchanging pleasantries, I was just settling down in the plush sofa when all of a sudden, a bunch of boisterous youngsters burst upon the scene. Fresh from a gruelling basketball session, they looked sweaty, breathless and exuberant. The 17-18-year-olds took turns to greet each of the guests politely.
I was intently listening to the discussions, remembering my own high school and college capers, when I heard someone say, “Good evening aunty, how are you? I’m Ekta, and that’s my dad,” gesturing to our host of the evening. I made a mental note of the girl’s name and turned around to see who Ekta was speaking to. I was flummoxed to see Ekta, and all her friends, looking directly at me and taking turns to nod a courteous hello! They all looked like eager beavers, curious to know me better. I looked around, just to make sure that I wasn’t mistaken, and that they were actually speaking to me. To my utter dismay, I realised that, indeed, was the case.
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The unwritten rule book of defence etiquette mandated all married ladies to be addressed as “aunty” by officers’ wards, irrespective of the age difference. Or rather, the lack of it! And thus, from a footloose, pony-tailed college-goer, I overnight graduated to being an “aunty” of all the neighbourhood children who were barely five or six years younger than me! Did I feel maternal? Certainly not! Was I embarrassed or upset? Strangely, no! In fact, I felt kind of smug, happy in the new-found gravitas the tag bestowed on me. It carried the thrill of a promotion, something that my 23-year-old self heartily welcomed.
And thus, the years rolled on. And the tag stayed with me. Eventually, I reached the fabled forties. We quit the armed forces and relocated to civilian territory in Bengaluru. There, I got to perceive the term from a totally new perspective. Silver-haired shop owners, fruit vendors, plumbers, cab drivers and others called me “aunty”, partially to accord respect and largely to make up for the absence of a more suitable form of address. This time, coming from people older than me, it hurt a little. But I accepted my predicament with grace and equanimity. Now, I’ve entered my hallowed fifties, and “auntyism” has grown on me — in fact, it behoves me well. Like old friends who have weathered many a storm together, I now actually relish this term and slowly savour the brew of eclectic and endearing memories it whips up.
So aunties of the world, unite, may our tribe grow, prosper, and inspire!!
urmichakravorty@gmail.com