AUNTIJI

By Sarita Sidhu

April 27, 2019

I usually find myself in trouble when I go back to England to visit my parents. In trouble for other things too, but that’s another story.

A couple of weeks ago I asked my husband to watch a video, saying “Check out the Auntiji in this.” After watching it he said “You know you’re older than her, right?” I thought “Damn―walked right into it again.”

I have two daughters and most of their Indian friends here in the US have called me Auntiji for as long as I’ve known them. It’s also common for women to refer to younger females as beti, which translates as daughter, regardless of whether there is an actual blood relationship. I’ve decided to embrace this Auntiji identity, and I hope it helps me to stop insulting other Indian women. I probably still will, just in different ways now. So call me Auntiji, and let’s see if I’m worthy of this esteemed title.

Dear Auntiji,

Why do Indian Women Wear Gold Bangles?

Beti,

An Indian woman’s gold jewelry is her backup wealth if she finds herself in dire circumstances. In the meantime, media show Indian women with thick, lustrous, dark hair and flawless fair skin, wearing colorful, ornate saris and suits, adorned with multiple gold bangles on each arm; the musicality of these bangles moving in unison is undoubtedly alluring and charming. Especially if she happens to be cooking at the same time in her kitchen.

What is not depicted though is that the bangles, much like a cat’s bell, indicate to a woman’s husband that she is approaching, and so he can prepare to ask her to bring him something; it might be tea and snacks, his dinner, his sweater, or even the remote control which he is unable to retrieve without getting up. For this reason, when you have your own gold bangles after marriage, I would advise you to keep them in a safe deposit box at the bank.

And while we’re on the subject of bangles, the morning after your wedding night, your husband and/or in-laws may be looking for blood, as evidence that you are pure enough for their son. So at least one glass bangle, which will break easily, will be a wise addition to your gold bangles. Better make it several glass bangles to avoid any suspicion. Unfortunately, there’s no requirement for an equivalent test of worthiness for your husband.

Dear Auntiji,

I hate how long it takes for me to put a sari on. Who decided that saris were a good idea?

Beti,

The short answer is ‘probably a man.’ The same man who decided that high heels and thongs were a good idea. The one who looks at you disapprovingly at a party when he sees a drink in your hand, even though he has no idea if it’s alcoholic; he just knows he’s always right. About everything. Probably the same one waiting for you to pass him the remote control.

I’ve heard that the more frequently one wears a sari, the faster one becomes at wrapping the approximately six yards of fabric so that it resembles a long skirt with a stack of pleats offset to one side. Even if I could put it on quickly, I like having two arms; draping the pullah (end of the fabric) over my left shoulder and upper arm, then keeping my arm extended to keep it in place feels deliberately disabling. This is why I use safety pins. Lots of them. To attach the pullah onto the fabric of my blouse at the shoulder. Even then, I feel anxious about stepping onto the bottom of the sari as I walk, or get up from a seat, so I pin all the pleats together too. And I tie the petticoat nala (cord) tightly, so that the tucked-in sari fabric remains secure. Once I tied the nala so tightly I had a visible ring around my waist for a couple of weeks.

Of course there are those women who make wearing a sari look like a breeze; they look so elegant and can even dance in one. While also wearing a thong and high heels. I try hard not to hate them too much.

I’ve heard rumors about being able to get saris stitched up so wearing them becomes almost as convenient as wearing a skirt. As a descendant of darzis (tailors), you’d think I might know where at least one of these mythical creatures lives or works. I don’t.

So for the most part I stick to wearing a salwar kameez (tunic and pants) because I have things to do. Like most women, a lot of things to do. I would recommend you do the same. And if you find a darzi who can stich all of your saris into skirts, please send me the address.

* * *

Dear Auntiji,

I’m thirteen years old and I suffer from hirsutism. I feel so embarrassed all the time. Why won’t my parents let me remove the excess hair from my face?

Beti,

This is a common problem because most of us have dark hair. I really do understand your embarrassment because I was also in the same situation growing up. Your parents may, like mine, associate your desire to be free of superfluous hair with a desire to be more attractive to boys. And we know this must be avoided at all costs. But walking around with a moustache and beard became a price I was not willing to pay. So I used the bus-fair money I saved by walking to and from school to buy hair-removal products in secret. During my experiment with bleaching cream my long blonde beard hairs were accentuated by the dark high neck of the sweater I wore in winter. I found that I had to leave the hair removal creams on for a lot longer than recommended for them to remove the thicker, stubborn hairs. Unfortunately, this meant I was left with patches of raw, red skin, which soon scabbed over. I didn’t know which was worse―the scabs or the hair. I would wait until my parents had left home to use the hot wax method of removal; sometimes I burned my face. Eventually I gave up on all these methods and started to tweeze out the hairs individually. I used the study lamp in my room and a magnifying mirror. By the time I was sixteen, I had to pluck the hairs from my upper lip and chin every morning. It wasn’t until after I got married that I discovered electrolysis; a permanent method of hair removal. The only trouble was the hairs could not be plucked out between treatments, so I often went to work with long hairs in my moustache and beard areas; I didn’t realize, until too late, that it was permissible to cut the hairs close to the skin between treatments.

But enough about me! You are so blessed to have the internet and the vast world of information and support at your fingertips. So if you have some money, find a place that offers electrolysis, or even laser treatment―but the latter only reduces hair rather than permanently remove it, and it can be quite expensive. Electrolysis is a slow process because the hairs are treated one at a time. So your parents may not even notice your gradual progression to being hair free, until you’re old enough for it to no longer be a cause for concern―it will help if they’re older and have poor eyesight.

I have a nagging suspicion that parents don’t give permission to their daughters to remove facial hair because it allows them to perpetuate the fantasy that their daughters are actually adolescent boys. And we know how much they love their sons! I sometimes wonder if parents might be easily persuaded by daughters who feel they were born the wrong sex, and want to transition to becoming sons. There may yet emerge a parent-supported trend for gender reassignment surgery. But I should stop. I’m probably giving them ideas.

All the best Beti, and let me know how you get on.

Dear Auntiji,

I’m in my early twenties, and my parents are trying to arrange my marriage. In fact, I’m supposed to meet a prospective groom at the house of a go-between (someone who knows both families) this weekend. Help! I don’t know what to do.

Beti,

This is a difficult decision to make. And it’s hard for me to advise without further information.

Is there someone in your life you would rather marry?

Do you want to marry when you’re older?

Are you against the idea of marriage itself?

How much choice do you really have in the selection process? Will you be able to spend time alone with a prospective groom before deciding? How many times will you be allowed to meet each other?

Does the prospective groom live by himself, and if so, how far is he from his family?

Better yet, is he an orphan? This can be a huge advantage.

Beti, when my parents were arranging my marriage I saw no other way for me to leave my father’s house, and my bag had been packed for a really long time. One prospect turned out to have been an alcoholic, who had been married already, and had one child. And my parents found this out in the late 1980s, before the internet, before Facebook! Can you imagine? So that was a lucky break! I said yes to the first person I was introduced to because he had big, kind, cinnamon-colored eyes, he spoke softly with confidence, and he made me feel safe. We met several times after we had both agreed to the marriage. Once, I called him from a pay phone at the railway station after my training for work had finished, and he ran all the way from university to meet me there; he picked a flower from someone’s garden on the way, and presented it to me. I still have it, pressed and in a frame. His mother had made it clear that we were to live with her and her husband until death do us part, and I had still agreed. I can’t lie―sometimes I would think that if I’d been in prison, I’d have been out on parole already. But we moved to the US from England, and that’s when things became better for us. Three decades after our marriage, my husband is not only the best man I know, but also my favorite human. On our anniversaries we give each other cards that read “If I could have picked my spouse, I would have picked you.”

So Beti, getting married, whether we pick our own partner or not, is like a ticket for the lottery, but the chances of winning are considerably higher. Please do write back, and give me more information about your circumstances, so I can be more helpful.