Last weekend, I visited my late mother’s younger sister who lives in Jharkhand, far and away from Delhi. From the airport, as we drove through the picturesque Chhota Nagpur plateau to reach her home in Bokaro, I devoured the tiffin she had sent – poori and aloo ka bhujia, my favorite travel food. And as soon as I walked into her house, after 42 years, time stood still.

My aunt does not resemble my late mother. I always thought of them like chalk and cheese – my mother’s vivacity complemented my aunt’s quiet sweet disposition. And yet as my aunt stood over her walker to hug me, I was vividly reminded of my mother. Despite being in poor health, she orchestrated the conditions for the perfect visit of the eldest daughter of the house, as she calls me. My uncle ensured that everything functioned as clockwork, as per her wishes. I felt transported to my maternal grandparents’ home where we spent every summer holiday in school. For two days, I lived in my childhood, swapping happy stories of a life that now exists only in the deepest recesses of my memory.

This window into the world that seems to be shrinking every year made me realize how blessed I am in aunts. Thanks to the large number of my parents’ siblings, I have many aunts – some whom I am related to by blood, and others who married into the families. And then, there are aunts unrelated to me – my mother’s friends and my friends’ mothers! I have had neighbourhood aunts – one who lived next door, helping teenage me broker life-altering deals with my father; and one who lives in my apartment building, who always makes me feel like a million bucks through her kind words.

The aunts I am related to are a motley (read crazy) bunch – idiosyncratic, competent, and affectionate. They have been the grandmothers my kids needed. They have mothered me when I was in need. There is the aunt I call at 4 AM and she cheerfully listens to my complaints and prescribes medicines. And then the nutty aunt who lives across the pond and terrifies everyone in the family; but I know she has my back, always. The paternal aunt, a la Miss Marple, who relishes gossip while knitting sweaters for my brothers’ and my progeny. There is also the younger aunt who is forever buried in an alternate universe of books but is always game to come and rub oil on the soles of my feet if I am sick! My husband’s late aunt helped me navigate the mores of a new household while my cousin’s aunt has been a fount of wisdom whenever I am confused.

The list of wonderful women who are (and were) my aunts is long. They embody motherhood and selfless affection. They make you feel at home. They make you feel young and carefree. Even when they call you names, you know there is no judgment attached to it. Because they take their job of taking care of you seriously. Like the paternal aunt who will call out any person who she thinks is not being nice to me. I am convinced that she was a gangster in her previous life. Wodehouse said, ‘Aunts aren’t Gentlemen.’ Boy, Am I glad for that!