Bye Bye, Nosey Aunty!!

Being a woman is a hard, hard road to walk on. Especially in India. Not because the roads are bad, although, well, I have thoughts on that too, but because along every road, there is usually a Nosey Aunty in every family, standing somewhere on the side, holding a cup of tea and a very important question. A question you did not ask for. A question you were not prepared for.

“Beta… when are you getting married?” Ah. There she is. Welcome, Nosey Aunty.

You get married, and before you've finished thanking everyone for their wishes, Nosey Aunty appears.

“Very nice, beta. Marriage is good. A woman needs a man in her life.”

You smile. Lovely. Then comes the next question.

“But you are not working?” You say no.

She nods knowingly. “You shouldn't be completely dependent on your husband. Poor boy, everything will fall on him!” So, you get a job. You earn money, contribute to the household and become financially independent. You return to the next family gathering, feeling rather proud.

Nosey Aunty smiles. “Ohhh, you're working now? And who is looking after the house?” Ah, the mysterious Indian house that apparently cannot survive without one woman hovering over it at all times.

“And poor husband! How does he manage?”

“Remarkably well, Aunty. He's even discovered where the washing machine lives.”

Surely, once you're married and working, everyone will leave you alone? Oh, my sweet summer child. This is India.

Nosey Aunty returns. “Good news?” You look confused. “What good news?” She looks at your stomach. A silent conversation takes place, between the two of you. You explain that you aren't planning to have children right now.

Her eyebrows travel upwards. "Not now?”

“No.”

“Later?”

“Maybe not.” Suddenly, you can almost hear distant temple bells.

“But WHY? Have you gone to a doctor? Have you prayed? Have you thought about it properly? What does your husband say? What will your parents say?”

Perhaps you and your partner simply enjoy being a family of two. You like travelling, sleeping in, spontaneous dinners and drinking your chai while it's still hot.

Nosey Aunty looks concerned. “But beta, who will look after you when you're old?”

You resist the urge to explain that children are not retirement plans.

Now, suppose you do have a baby. Surely, everyone will be happy? For approximately ten minutes. “Only one?” “But beta, one child will be lonely! Don't you want another? Children need siblings!”

You look at your tiny, beautiful, sleep-stealing baby and think, We haven't even figured out how to keep this one alive, and you're asking for the sequel? Aunty, please. Even Bollywood allows a little interval between releases.

There is apparently no correct answer to being a woman.

Get married early? “Too young!” Get married late? “Why so late?” Don't work? “Be independent!” Work? “Who will manage the house?” Have no children? “But why?” Have one? “Only one?” Have two? “That's enough now!” Have three? “Arre, expenses!”

Basically, the correct number of children appears to be whatever Nosey Aunty wishes, and even that may change by next Monday.

It's as though somewhere in India, there's a secret answer sheet to womanhood, and every aunty has a copy except the woman actually living the life.

But Here's the Thing, perhaps Nosey Aunty forgets one tiny detail.

The woman sitting across from her is also an adult. She has dreams, fears, responsibilities and probably a few mistakes behind her that she's already survived. Her parents raised her well and they taught her to walk, then to run, and eventually to let go of her hand. Because good parenting doesn't mean holding someone's hand forever, it means teaching them how to hold their own.

So perhaps she doesn't need somebody sitting beside her throughout life, shouting, “Turn left! No, not that left! What will people say?”

Aunty, please. The woman has Google. She'll be fine. Let Her Drive.

Maybe she wants a husband. Maybe she doesn't. Maybe she wants children. Maybe she doesn't. Perhaps she wants a career, a home, both, or neither. Maybe she wants to travel the world, or simply sit on her balcony with chai and watch it go by.

And perhaps she'll change her mind five times. That's okay, too.

Because that's the lovely, inconvenient thing about being an adult: You get to change your mind.

Dear Nosey Aunty, you've lived your life. You've made your choices, driven your car and taken your turns. Now it's someone else's turn. So, put down the horn, unclench those eyebrows and sip your chai. And, if you must, keep the advice in the glove compartment until somebody asks for it.

The girl in front of you isn't lost. She's simply driving a different road. Wouldn't it be lovely if, instead of honking, we just waved and shouted, “Go, beta! You've got this!”

Bye Bye, Nosey.

Drive safe. And please… stop honking.