The other day, the daughter of a school friend asked if she could call me Kavery and not Aunty.
Wow! That's a change and I was thrilled. I'm called Aunty by all sorts of people – nurses, sales reps, shop assistants, beggars, house-helps, patients and of course my genuine nieces and nephews. It's really not just my vanity that makes me wince when a vegetable vendor tries to charm me into buying an extra bunch of palak with, "Lelo na Aunty, taaza hai." I just hate being Auntified. I put up a tough fight and resist being herded into this amorphous group which makes me feel like someone who leads a boring life and insists on offering unsolicited advice.
My worst (or should it be the best?) Aunty Moment came a few months after we came to Lonavla. Here, most of my patients are construction labour and they often turn up at home when it is an emergency. One night, someone rattled the front door and asked for 'Doctor Saab'. I let the portly, middle-aged woman and her two children come in. The kind woman addressed me as Auntyji, and I quickly told her not to. Moments later she addressed me as Uncle. No, no I said, I'm not Uncle. I'm a doctor. When I had dressed her daughter's leg wound, given her an injection and some medicines, they got up to leave.
"When should I bring her again….Mummy?" the lady asked, innocently.
Mummified!
I could clearly hear my husband chuckling upstairs.
