The 'uncle and aunty' syndrome

We all know that age carries clout in India. As the website indianchild.com says, “respect for elders is a major component in Indian culture”. In ancient times, this meant youngsters would touch the feet of elders in greeting, talk to them deferentially and fetch things for them. But the modern guideline for respecting elders in India is crisper: simply address them ‘uncle’ and ‘aunty’.

I discovered this truth early in my marriage, at the tender age of 24. A couple older than us and their three-year old daughter were staying in the ground floor of our apartment building. On our first visit to their house, the girl smiled sweetly at us and said, “Hello uncle; hello aunty’. My wife and I found it endearing to be addressed like this by the little one.

Two days later, we were trudging up the stairs to our flat when the door of the apartment on the second floor opened and a man walked out. He politely moved out of the way to let us pass and smiled.

“Hullo uncle; hullo aunty,” he said. I looked at him closely. He had a thick moustache and a three-day stubble that made him look more adult than me. Yet he was calling me ‘uncle’ and his only excuse was that I was married!

“Hullo,” I said coldly and offered him my hand. “I’m Paddy. And you?”

As he shook hands with me his smile became more friendly. I thought he had recognized his error and would now address me by my name.

“I’m Ajit, uncle,” he said. “I just finished my B. Com and am looking for a job.”

Maybe he needed a broader hint.

“I’m a graduate engineering trainee at Telco,” I said, subtly conveying that I had an engineering degree and had just got a job, and therefore was not more than two years older than him.

“That’s great, uncle,” he said. “My dad works there too, at the forge.”

After that initiation, my wife and I became reconciled to being addressed as ‘uncle’ and ‘aunty’ by men and women who did not look much younger than us. We would return their greetings graciously but later, in the privacy of our bedroom, we’d have a quiet laugh together

A few years later, on another staircase to another flat in another city we met another young man. At six feet five inches, he towered over us and in the dimly lit corridor looked a shade dangerous. I remember thinking that if I had met him in a dark, lonely alley, I’d have handed him my wallet and watch, without waiting to be asked. But as he greeted us, it became obvious that he had met my wife previously.

“Hello akka (elder sister),” he said, “nice to see you again.” I smiled with pleasure at his ability to impart respect without making my wife feel ancient. As I beamed at him, I noticed how pleasant-looking and gentle he was and wondered how I could have thought he looked dangerous.

“And is this your husband?” the fine fellow continued. As my wife nodded, he turned to me and offered his hand. “Hullo uncle! So nice to meet you at last.”

“Nasty specimen,” I said to my wife when we entered our flat. “Doesn’t he look like a villain from Bollywood?”

“No!” she said. “I think he looks sweet and innocent.”

I realized that as long as we had shared the rewards of aging equally, and had been able to laugh together at the foibles of Youth, things had been bearable. But now it appeared that I might overtake my wife on the path to seniority. I felt a shiver go down my spine. What if, over the years, I got promoted from ‘uncle’ to ‘thatha’ (grandfather) while she remained ‘akka’?

Luckily, that didn’t happen. Apart from the occasional ‘akka’ thrown her way, we’ve collected an equal quota of ‘uncles’ and ‘aunties’ from an array of fellow Indians in different places and at different times. Just last week, when we I were returning from an outing, we saw a couple in their late forties struggling with their shopping at the entrance to our apartment. The man was balding and, among the few hair left on his head, the colour grey dominated. My wife and I helped them by picking up a few bags and carrying them to the lift.

“Thank you so much,” the man said as the lift came to a stop. I began to smile to imply ‘it was no trouble’ when he continued, “It’s so kind of you, uncle.”

“I think I have more hair on my head than you,” I wanted to say but he had left the lift.

Two days after this I was talking to my 26-year old son in Mumbai.

“You won’t believe this, Appa (dad),” he said. “In the lift today, I met a man in his thirties and his three-year old son. The boy called me ‘uncle’! I felt very old.”

“Don’t worry,” I told him. “Once you marry, the boy’s father will also call you ‘uncle’!”