005: Aunties Deserve Compassion Too

That time I found myself caught in the middle of an auntie nightmare.

This story takes place upon my return from my first year of solo travel. I was reintegrating back into the US and the Indian culture within it. This story is one of the first interactions I had with aunties since having traveled and changed so much.

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I was in the middle of one of every Indian-American woman’s nightmares. Being alone in a room full of aunties. Not the cool aunties either. The aunties we typically avoid because there’s no knowing what unhinged thing they may say.

There were ten aunties in the room and me.

Most of the aunties fit on the L-shaped dark brown leather couch in my parent’s family room but we’d brought in a few dining room chairs to accommodate the overflow. My mom took one of the overflow seats and I took my spot in the corner of the room on the ground, intentionally out of sight.

I happened to be staying with my parents at the time. I had just gotten back from a year of traveling alone and was getting used to being back in the US and figuring out my next step.

Everything was going as usual. The chai was out and served as were the snacks; khatta mehta, samosas, rusk, ladoos, jalebis, and my personal favorite, gulab jaman. The aunties expect it. They deny it. But ultimately, end up thoroughly enjoying it.

In the culture I grew up around, there’s a dance to accepting anything. Deny three times before gracefully accepting “against your will”. It’s a dance I reluctantly participate in, too. It’s expected. You’re eager if you accept too quickly and rude if you don’t accept at all.

“Let us make some chai and get some snacks,” my mom and I offer.
“No, thanks, we ate before we came.” (First denial)
“We insist.”
“No, please we just wanted to see you.” (Second denial)
“Really, it’s no trouble. We don’t mind.”
“Please don’t do any work, just have a seat.” (Third denial)
“We’ll just get the chai going and come back.”
“Okay, then, if you must.” (Acceptance)

The aunties were in full-blown conversation and gossip. Swapping stories about the latest, their kids, and their own lives.

I felt like I was watching an Indian drama on Zee TV. The lipstick stained tea cups. The different pitches of their voices, the mix of forced and real laughter. The different speeds at which they all spoke Punjabi. Accelerating as they got excited about the story they were sharing and slowing down with their eyes gazing towards the ground when it was something serious. The way they swung their chunnis over their shoulders to make a point. The movement of their heads and hands, further animating their stories.

All the aunties had been born in India and moved to the US with their husbands. All the aunties had kids. All of their kids were born and raised in America. Many of their kids were married, a good amount of those married kids had their own kids, and anyone unmarried was either in med school or almost married.

Then, there was me.

In my 30s, unmarried with no prospects, unemployed, recently returned from a year of traveling alone, and figuring out what I wanted to do next. Nobody else in the family, extended family, or community had “veered off course,” like I had. For better or for worse.

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Although these aunties had “perfect” kids, they still found things to complain about.

“Well, my own son told me he was going to set boundaries with me.”

“With his own mother?” another responded, “I bet it was because of his wife.”

I found myself responding in my mind. Yea, because you drive her crazy.

“I’m worried about my daughter. She isn’t getting the best marks in medical school. What did I do wrong?”

It’s not about you. Plus, she’s been partying it up to release the stress of med school and her parents AND she’s still #2 in her class.

“I don’t know how they’re raising their kids these days. My daughter-in-law only did breast feeding for a few months.”

“Well, yea, she was clearly in a deep postpartum depression that got better once she stopped. She did what was best for her.”

20 individual eyeballs turned, all looking down towards me sitting on the ground in the corner of the room, no longer invisible.

Oh no. I said the inside part out loud.

Instant regret. That’s when the nightmare really began.

“So, Shailla, when will you get married?”

I should’ve stayed quiet.

My heart rate sped up. My breathing quickened. My eyes wandered the room, taking in the expression on each of the aunties faces. My mind full of witty, “disrespectful” responses.

Ultimately, what came out was a common Punjabi phrase, “Jivein likhya hai, ovin hoyega,” or essentially, “How it’s written is how it’ll happen.”

“Oh, you don’t want to wait too long. The clock is ticking, you know.”

“Well, I still don’t know if I want kids so we’ll see,” I stated, a little too casually.

You’d think I just launched a nuke. The aunties were all talking over each other in response to that comment. The general gist being, “What do you mean? Of course you’re going to have kids. Don’t say such ludicrous things!”

“Yea, maybe. If I find someone who I want to have kids with that I think would be an amazing father.”

“I know of a good boy. Good job. Good family.”

“Me too, Shailla,” chimed in another auntie.

Because that’s all that matters, right? Never mind his emotional capacity, communication, and desire for growth as a human being.

My mom, thankfully, had my back, “She’ll figure it out.”

There was a quiet in the room. That conversational lull that happens when topics are about to be changed. You’d think that’s exactly what I’d want but then, as if from somewhere else, my mouth started moving and words came out.

“Did any of you get a choice in who you married and when?”

They laughed, “Of course not.”

My mouth did that talking thing again, all on its own, “And are you happy?”

The laughter stopped.

Some looked around at each other. Others looked down towards the ground. Nobody responded.

“I’m happy. What’s more important than that?”

I wasn’t sure if I was being disrespectful. This is generally considered back talk. It’s not normal. It’s not accepted. I know this yet, for whatever reason, I continued.

“My mom didn’t have a choice either. Not my Dadi (dad’s mom) nor my Nani (mom’s mom). Or anyone else before them. I’m taking all their choices and making all of my own. Because of them, I can do that. So why shouldn’t I?”

The room was collectively in shock. Myself included.

Nobody had a response. I couldn’t tell if my mom was embarrassed or trying to hide her pride. Maybe a little of both but probably mostly embarrassed by her often-too-American daughter.

I don’t think it had ever been presented to them like that. I hadn’t actively thought of it like that either until that moment.

What a privilege. A blessing. A duty. I have the power of choice in my life. These aunties didn’t. Not really. They still make pretty crappy comments about things and gossip a little too much for my liking. But it made me feel more compassionate towards them. They were raised in a society that required them to go from living with their dad to living with their husband who was chosen for them by their parents. Never allowed independence. Rarely allowed the option to be educated. Their growth likely stifled by their egoic husbands. Of course, there are exceptions to this. But I’ve seen way too many incredible women with close to zero confidence because of how they’ve been put down by the men in their life.

I was the first in my lineage of women with choice. I didn’t do a single thing to deserve it yet, here I was, living a life none of the women before me, including these aunties, could have ever fathomed.

Well, except my Dadi (dad’s mom). She did some boss ass shit.

Subscribe to get my next post and learn how my Dadi, an Indian woman born in the 1920s, stood up for herself multiples times in multiple ways, against the cultural norm.

I must have gotten it from somewhere.

Stay Tuned

Thank you for taking the time to read this post. Your attention could have been on any number of other things but you chose to spend time with me as I lived (and survived) one of my nightmares.

Subscribe to be notified about the next story where I plan to dive into the history of my family, how they made their way to the US, and how my Dadi was a complete and total bad ass.

Currently

Reading: “The Creative Process” by James Baldwin

Listening to: IMO with Michelle Obama and Craig Robinson // Disappointment is the Key to Career Success with Keke Palmer

Thinking about: My ancestors. I love thinking that they’d be proud of the way I’ve chosen to live my life. The reality is, if the human versions of them existed today, many of them may not be. They grew up in a completely different time and may not understand me or my choices. That’s okay. I like to think the spirits of my ancestors are rooting for me.

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