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.
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.
