<p class="bodytext">Not surprising at all that it took the world a Zeenat Aman to realise that it’s fine to be an ‘aunty’. But Zeenat, at whatever age, will be the fabulous Zeenat whether she’s called an aunty or an aardvark! </p>.<p class="bodytext">Many of us lesser mortals of a certain age are, however, familiar with a few hackles rising when addressed as auntyji. It is, after all, a term we associate with ‘older’ women, and to be put in that bracket ourselves would mean we are old. And everyone knows that old age is always ten or fifteen years ahead of us, whether we are thirty or sixty. So, we look askance at anyone calling us ‘aunty’. But when this eternally stylish, eternally modern lady lauds the word, it makes us pause…</p>.<p class="bodytext">Being promoted to <span class="italic"><em>didi </em></span>was fine, gratifying really; so was ma’am, but aunty? Ma’am doesn’t sound derogatory at all. Why? A) It alludes to a certain degree of respect, relevance, or some accomplishment even. B) It has nothing to do with age.</p>.<p class="bodytext">‘Aunty’, on the other hand, puts you on that shelf, where you’d put things somewhat past their prime. Just a step away from <span class="italic"><em>Mataji</em></span>, horror of horrors!</p>.<p class="bodytext">And yet, the term 'aunty', when applied to the women we knew, evokes a sense of warmth and affection within us. It reminds me of Majumdar aunty, Agarwal aunty, Mathur aunty, Sharma aunty — aunties we grew up surrounded with. The first had this gift of making everyone feel so tremendously special; another was and is this genie, who would wave her magic spatula and make even the humble <span class="italic"><em>lauki </em></span>(bottle gourd) win a Master Chef; Mathur aunty was a whiz at teaching anything, whether it was home décor or holding your own at work or home. Not to forget Goyal aunty, better known as BBC aunty, who’d be the font of the latest gossip, be it Bollywood or neighbourhood, and provide us with ammunition for weeks. </p>.<p class="bodytext">Just thinking of them conjures up rich, fragrant <span class="italic"><em>aloo-pyaz paranthas</em></span>, cosy one-on-one confidences, the warm assurance of someone being there, life lessons taught effortlessly and plump shoulders to lean or cry on. </p>.<p class="bodytext">I was catapulted to the aunty category at the ripe old age of twenty just because I got married and took to wearing saris, staying true to my Bollywood upbringing, where heroines then started wearing saris the moment they got married. It irked me a fair bit when girls older than me called me aunty, but who knew that they were preparing me for today? Now that I’m sixty, and now that Zeenie baby…oops…aunty has said 'aunty' is no derogatory term by any means, bring it on; I am happy to be an aunty! Hopefully, the kind that I remember so fondly.</p>
<p class="bodytext">Not surprising at all that it took the world a Zeenat Aman to realise that it’s fine to be an ‘aunty’. But Zeenat, at whatever age, will be the fabulous Zeenat whether she’s called an aunty or an aardvark! </p>.<p class="bodytext">Many of us lesser mortals of a certain age are, however, familiar with a few hackles rising when addressed as auntyji. It is, after all, a term we associate with ‘older’ women, and to be put in that bracket ourselves would mean we are old. And everyone knows that old age is always ten or fifteen years ahead of us, whether we are thirty or sixty. So, we look askance at anyone calling us ‘aunty’. But when this eternally stylish, eternally modern lady lauds the word, it makes us pause…</p>.<p class="bodytext">Being promoted to <span class="italic"><em>didi </em></span>was fine, gratifying really; so was ma’am, but aunty? Ma’am doesn’t sound derogatory at all. Why? A) It alludes to a certain degree of respect, relevance, or some accomplishment even. B) It has nothing to do with age.</p>.<p class="bodytext">‘Aunty’, on the other hand, puts you on that shelf, where you’d put things somewhat past their prime. Just a step away from <span class="italic"><em>Mataji</em></span>, horror of horrors!</p>.<p class="bodytext">And yet, the term 'aunty', when applied to the women we knew, evokes a sense of warmth and affection within us. It reminds me of Majumdar aunty, Agarwal aunty, Mathur aunty, Sharma aunty — aunties we grew up surrounded with. The first had this gift of making everyone feel so tremendously special; another was and is this genie, who would wave her magic spatula and make even the humble <span class="italic"><em>lauki </em></span>(bottle gourd) win a Master Chef; Mathur aunty was a whiz at teaching anything, whether it was home décor or holding your own at work or home. Not to forget Goyal aunty, better known as BBC aunty, who’d be the font of the latest gossip, be it Bollywood or neighbourhood, and provide us with ammunition for weeks. </p>.<p class="bodytext">Just thinking of them conjures up rich, fragrant <span class="italic"><em>aloo-pyaz paranthas</em></span>, cosy one-on-one confidences, the warm assurance of someone being there, life lessons taught effortlessly and plump shoulders to lean or cry on. </p>.<p class="bodytext">I was catapulted to the aunty category at the ripe old age of twenty just because I got married and took to wearing saris, staying true to my Bollywood upbringing, where heroines then started wearing saris the moment they got married. It irked me a fair bit when girls older than me called me aunty, but who knew that they were preparing me for today? Now that I’m sixty, and now that Zeenie baby…oops…aunty has said 'aunty' is no derogatory term by any means, bring it on; I am happy to be an aunty! Hopefully, the kind that I remember so fondly.</p>
