<p class="bodytext">A lady of indeterminate age smiled warmly and said that I reminded her of her aunt. My first instinct was to wonder how much I had aged. On second thoughts, it was perhaps her nostalgia. It certainly took me right back to my childhood and the world of aunts.</p>.<p class="bodytext">Their unconditional love and the total lack of any rationality in judging my non-existent talents still bring a lump to my throat. There was the general family disapproval of my calling them by their first names, but they loved the irreverence. There is absolutely no recall bias in the memories of my mother’s chagrin and despair; was there no limit to how much a child could be indulged? But how else does a child develop confidence? How else does a child find a non-competitive space?</p>.<p class="bodytext">One never had the privilege of becoming an admired aunt, a refuge for young truants. My only sibling remained a happy single woman and took over the next generation from where my aunts had left off.</p>.<p class="bodytext">To my children and grandchildren, she was a friend known only by her first name. Her age remained closed to whoever she was interacting with, and she was the authority who sanctioned all the forbidden pleasures of childhood. The helmet-less scooter rides, the orange and yellow ice candy, the pink cotton candy, and whatever. Best of all, the enthusiastic disapproval of any child who caused any distress to the home team came with no reasons asked. There was no distinction made between the valuable, the not-so-valuable, and junk. Even the grandchildren had access to anything they fancied. Any loss or damage became a valuable lesson in philosophy. No yelling, no regrets; it was all taken as beyond one’s control.</p>.<p class="bodytext">The warmth with which I remember my aunts does not make me less envious of the deep impression my sister left behind. My daughter, despite my claims to liberal parenting, recalls only her aunt as someone who told her to do exactly what she wanted to do, spend when she could enjoy the spending, and travel to wherever she wanted to go. The son had access to her two-wheeler, and any damage caused was always irrelevant as long as he was not hurt. The generosity was extended to their friends. </p>.<p class="bodytext">The quiet dignity with which the grandchildren came to terms with her passing left me amazed. “She was a doctor,” said the nine-year-old grandson, and she was there when my dad was born.” The four-year-old granddaughter had more questions, but when she lost a favourite toy at a holiday resort, she was inconsolable. She finally processed all her grief by declaring that the toy was perhaps dead. It had gone to heaven and was being cared for by her mother’s aunt. </p>.<p class="bodytext">The unknown lady of indeterminate age had paid me a huge compliment because aunts are adorable. Period.</p>
<p class="bodytext">A lady of indeterminate age smiled warmly and said that I reminded her of her aunt. My first instinct was to wonder how much I had aged. On second thoughts, it was perhaps her nostalgia. It certainly took me right back to my childhood and the world of aunts.</p>.<p class="bodytext">Their unconditional love and the total lack of any rationality in judging my non-existent talents still bring a lump to my throat. There was the general family disapproval of my calling them by their first names, but they loved the irreverence. There is absolutely no recall bias in the memories of my mother’s chagrin and despair; was there no limit to how much a child could be indulged? But how else does a child develop confidence? How else does a child find a non-competitive space?</p>.<p class="bodytext">One never had the privilege of becoming an admired aunt, a refuge for young truants. My only sibling remained a happy single woman and took over the next generation from where my aunts had left off.</p>.<p class="bodytext">To my children and grandchildren, she was a friend known only by her first name. Her age remained closed to whoever she was interacting with, and she was the authority who sanctioned all the forbidden pleasures of childhood. The helmet-less scooter rides, the orange and yellow ice candy, the pink cotton candy, and whatever. Best of all, the enthusiastic disapproval of any child who caused any distress to the home team came with no reasons asked. There was no distinction made between the valuable, the not-so-valuable, and junk. Even the grandchildren had access to anything they fancied. Any loss or damage became a valuable lesson in philosophy. No yelling, no regrets; it was all taken as beyond one’s control.</p>.<p class="bodytext">The warmth with which I remember my aunts does not make me less envious of the deep impression my sister left behind. My daughter, despite my claims to liberal parenting, recalls only her aunt as someone who told her to do exactly what she wanted to do, spend when she could enjoy the spending, and travel to wherever she wanted to go. The son had access to her two-wheeler, and any damage caused was always irrelevant as long as he was not hurt. The generosity was extended to their friends. </p>.<p class="bodytext">The quiet dignity with which the grandchildren came to terms with her passing left me amazed. “She was a doctor,” said the nine-year-old grandson, and she was there when my dad was born.” The four-year-old granddaughter had more questions, but when she lost a favourite toy at a holiday resort, she was inconsolable. She finally processed all her grief by declaring that the toy was perhaps dead. It had gone to heaven and was being cared for by her mother’s aunt. </p>.<p class="bodytext">The unknown lady of indeterminate age had paid me a huge compliment because aunts are adorable. Period.</p>
