So, I’ve been collecting addresses to send holiday cards this year and he-who-shall-not-be-named said, “Becoming a Gult Aunty, eh?” or something to that effect. And so, I must pause and reflect. (Also, must pause because I have a probability exam in about two hours and I’m starting to get jittery). There’s this notion that keeping house is no fun and that it’s for losers. Well, Gult Aunties may not necessarily be losers but they’re surely not cool. And while I’ve long accepted that I’m not cool. It still hurts to be called a Gult Aunty.
The Husband doesn’t get why it should be insulting to be called Gult. This is because he did not go to an engineering college filled with girls who wore jasmine in their hair, drooled over mustached Telugu film stars, spoke terrible English, and used the world “louver” to refer to their boyfriend. (Shakes head to get disturbing images out of there).
Sure, I like keeping house. I make my own yogurt (in a bid to reduce the number of plastic containers I buy), make idlis from scratch (cereal for breakfast makes me want to throw up), invite large numbers of friends over for dinner from time to time (and cook for them), clean with a Monica-from-Friends like obsessiveness, and (here’s my deepest, darkest, most shameful secret) do some dishes by hand because I want them to be shiny.
I’m also a lot more Gult now than I was before I married The Hero. We speak in an odd mix of English and Telugu at home (and also when discussing strategies while dealing with any kind of salespeople) and our diet is very close to what Mommy always serves for dinner. But I’ve always been obsessive about some things. (It’s Sankranthi. NOT Pongal). Although I love B-grade Bollywood, I draw the line at watching Telugu films (except the odd Mahesh Babu movie. But that doesn’t count because he doesn’t have a mustache).
I’ve always had Aunty like tendencies. I have to know who’s dating and who’s getting married and I love wedding pictures (the main reason I got off Facebook. Stalking was starting to become an obsession). I’m always feeding people – cooking for friends who can’t, making lunch for a sick friend, that sort of thing. And I can never understand why people would rather eat out than cook at home. I find an odd sort of comfort in a home cooked meal. And did I mention my love for saris?
But to put these together and call me a Gult Aunty… While I’m certainly asking for it, the words ring with a kind of death like certainty. Nothing can change that I am now version 2.0 of my mother. Not a trendy haircut and highlights, not a brand new size 6 (well, 7ish) wardrobe, not my Kindle… And certainly not the cookies I’m baking to send out with the cards…
