Since there's a ceasefire, and we can breathe a little easier, I thought I'd write something lighter this time. This morning's newspaper carried a rather interesting piece of news. A nurse in the UK had taken her colleague to court for calling her "aunty" and walked away not only with her dignity intact but also with a rather respectable sum of money. Now, in India, if we started suing everyone who called us 'aunty' or 'uncle,' our courts would need night and weekend shifts, and possibly a loyalty program.

Because here, "aunty" is not an insult. It is a default setting.

You walk into a building, and before you can say your own name, someone has already promoted you. "Aunty, the lift is not working." "Uncle, your car is blocking." You are still mentally twenty-five, physically negotiating with your knees, and socially declared retired by a child who has just learned to tie his shoelaces.

But pause a moment.

Why does it sting?

Because somewhere inside, we are still holding on to a younger version of ourselves. The one who ran upstairs two at a time, who did not need reading glasses to read the reading glasses bill, who could eat three plates of biryani and still discuss dessert.

"Aunty" is not just a word. It is a mirror. And like most mirrors, we don't mind looking into them as long as they lie.

I remember last year in Chicago, stepping out of an Uber into what I believed was a gentle snowfall, only to find it was actually an Olympic-level skating rink. The driver, a young man with the enthusiasm of someone who still trusts his knees, stretched out his hand to help me across.

I looked at his hand.

Then at him.

Then at my dignity.

And chose what I thought was dignity. Then looked at him, and told him, I was sorry.

Because at that moment, I realised something profound. It was not about age. It was about kindness. And my refusal had nothing to do with strength, but everything to do with ego sitting inside an ageing body.

We resist being called aunty, or uncle, or grandpa because we think it reduces us. But does it?

Or does it simply place us in a new role where we are meant to be gentler, wiser, kinder, and perhaps a little slower but far more thoughtful?

After all, nobody calls a selfish person aunty with affection. That title, in our country at least, comes with invisible expectations. To care. To guide. To smile even when the knees protest.

So, the next time someone calls you 'aunty' or 'uncle,' do not rush to court. Pause. Smile. And if needed, check if your hair has quietly joined the freedom movement.

Because growing older is not an insult. It is an achievement.

And accepting it gracefully might just be the first step to living the rest of life with a little more humour, a little less ego, and a lot more love...