As young’uns growing up in small-town India, I am sure we have all faced the wrath of the dreaded neighbourhood aunty. That sweet-talking busybody who knows everything about everyone, and can win the Gossip of the Year award if the municipality was actually handing these out. These aunties (and often uncles too) are the quickest to reach your parents the moment you step one toe out of line. God forbid it should matter that their definition of “toeing the line” may be far off from those of your family, but of course, objectivity is not really the aunty’s strong point.
From keeping a vigilant eye on your movements in the neighbourhood, (“I saw you come home late last night – party-sharty ha?”) to blatantly commenting on your holiday weight gain in such succinct words that would put Shashi Tharoor to shame, the desi aunty has it all perfected to a notch. But I am not here, armed with my pen, to diss this infallible creature - my thoughts are a little more complex than that.
One of the most common responses I have heard to the neighbourhood aunty’s existence is “I am never going to be like that when I grow up” a vow very seriously voiced by the victims of the aunty, especially the young woman craving a more carefree life. But, somehow and somewhere along the way, as the trials and tribulations of life catch up with her, this promise is often forgotten. And soon enough, within a few years, we have a new generation of auntys taking over and continuing the tradition with renewed vigour and zeal. Just like my aunty Bhanu.
Aunty Bhanu was your typical wild child (or so I had heard). She defied rules and norms and did not care about what the world thought of her. Listening to her tales, I was often enthralled. She spoke up without fear, went out with friends and was even rumoured to have a boyfriend or two (gasp!). She was known to fiercely defend her choices to the neighbourhood aunties of her time and was the epitome of courage and determination for all the young people around.
But then, eventually Bhanu aunty grew up and ‘auntified’, and I suppose in the process forgot about her own moxie. At an evening get-together a few years ago, she commented snarkily, “Ooh, look at Babita’s daughter, walking around like a model in those tiny clothes. I am sure her mother has no idea - I think it’s time for me to make a visit!”, leaving a young me absolutely baffled and slightly disappointed.
But this got me thinking. How does the aunty-fication process start? Do you wake up one morning and get a nagging urge to tell everyone that you saw your neighbour’s son sitting in a café with a girl? Do you get niggling anxiety if you haven’t told Mrs Kakoty that her daughter’s bra strap was showing on her otherwise t-shirt-covered shoulders?
How and when does it happen?
Well, after years of living and experiencing small-town life, I may have an answer: aunty-fication does not happen overnight. It is a long-drawn and slow process. You see, nobody intentionally wants to be the neighbourhood aunty. The process catches the young woman unawares. It creeps up on her, and before she knows it, she’s on her way to becoming the very thing she swore to destroy.
Aunty-fication is subtle. It begins when a smug 18-year-old looks at a college classmate and says, “I can’t believe she came to class wearing that bright red shade of lipstick!”. It carries on when another one comments “I can’t believe he goes out every evening on his bike – I would never be allowed to stay out that late! What a show-off!” And it continues when someone else exclaims “Oh, you know, she’d look much better if she changes are dressing style – her arms are too fat for those sleeves!” And - before you know it - these young people are well on their way to aunty-fication.
This may seem harmless at first – after all, one comment or two does not necessarily mean that the coveted ‘neighbourhood aunty’ crown will one day become yours, right? Besides, one has all the right in the world as a respected community member to offer their two bits on why the Sharmas were invited to the upcoming wedding, but the Baruas were not.
However, in the midst of such seemingly harmless conversations, what we often fail to realize is that we are just fueling the dreaded aunty. And I believe, without a check on it, the neighbourhood aunty continues to grow, getting bigger and stronger along the way.
Think of the imagery the aunty brings to mind. It is never you, or your mother or your aunt; it is not your BFF’s mom nor your favourite Pammi aunty who always has a nice thing to say to you. For the most part when we think of her, the aunty is an imaginary hook-nosed woman donning an ill-fitting saree, hiding behind the curtains of her home and looking out the window with squinty eyes.
But here’s the thing. The neighbourhood aunty is not a scary outsider. To put it simply, the desi aunty is one of us. She is you and she is me. She is someone like us who fell victim to the process because there were no checks applied to the conversations she came with.
And to deal with her, one thing is for sure. We need to come together and promise, no matter how young or old we may be, to consciously, carefully and deliberately say no to aunty-fication - bringing about a simple solution to an equally simple problem.
(All views and opinions expressed in the article are the author’s own)
