Get off my back.
I’m not your son. Even your child enjoys a greater degree of freedom because he can lock himself up in his room or tell you to fuck off. But I have to stand in the middle of the road holding heavy grocery bags, grinning like a fool while you chatter on about nothing that can be classified as your business.
And what’s that tone? The lilt when enquiring about that girl you saw me with? If you must know, her name is “not from your caste, eats nonveg, is super-hot and makes fun of your son”. Oh, and if you’re interested, yes we’re busy snogging at home when you come around asking for a cup of sugar, dahi or the slippers you may have forgotten yesterday. I can leave these items outside my door from tomorrow. Or better still, stick a post-it outside YOUR door so the husband remembers to pick them up from the market on his way home.
FYI when you stop by to casually discuss these little tidbits with my parents, they’re not hearing anything new. They’re parents. They just KNOW.
By the way, I love your cooking and I really wish you would come over everyday with delicious food especially when we don’t have the car available to ferry your relatives or help your hubby out with his taxes.
You are also the life of social gatherings. Of course, we wouldn’t dare risk our reputation inviting you to anything important but you have this knack of turning up anyway, especially at weddings, so we’re all good. You are capable of assembling the finest matchmaking footsoldiers and fanning your eagle-eyes in search of susceptible and marriageable young men and women. Market Research folk should learn a thing or two from you.
Where did he learn, what does he earn?
What’s his gotra, does he recite stotras?
Suddenly these young men and women will find themselves standing awkwardly next to each other trying to strike up a conversation while cursing the person responsible for this unwanted socializing. But of course, you are nowhere to be seen. Good deed done it’s off to fill the buffet plate. Go Aunty Go!
Hints are for losers, aren’t they. I’m seeing that girl but you’ll still throw her name around the old sewing-circle because “nothing is final no”. What tenacity! What a thick-skin!
But your greatest hits collection consists of life-advice. Please Aunty, don’t throw stones at my glass house. If only you followed your own advice, I wouldn’t have to call you Aunty.
So I guess what I’m saying is,
I’m not interested in your homilies.
I’m not interested in buying your husband’s side-business insurance policies.
I’ll even pass up a chance to enjoy your tasty food (seriously).
“Go sell crazy someplace else. We’re all stocked up here.”
Note: Inspired by an amalgamation of real-life experiences and this post by the awesome Giribala. Much respect to all the Aunties who made this possible. You know who you are. I wish I didn’t.