At a small get-together recently, a 42-year-old colleague confessed how uncomfortable she feels when grown-up children call her “auntie”.
Her remark took me back to my entry into the administrative services at the age of 23. At the Lal Bahadur Shastri National Academy of Administration in Mussoorie, the college-going daughters of a senior officer routinely addressed us as “auntie.” Some of my batchmates were visibly offended. Overnight promotion to aunthood at 23 was certainly premature. I was hardly delighted, but it didn’t trigger an existential crisis either—I simply found it amusing.
Over the years, I realised these forms of address are rarely about age alone. They are bound up with context, culture, hierarchy, affection, and sheer habit.
As an SDM and later a district magistrate, I met hundreds of people carrying grievances, expectations, and faith in the office. Without noticing when it started, I began addressing many young visitors as “beta”. Occasionally, I caught myself just in time, wondering if the person before me was actually older than I was. Administrative authority distorts one’s perception of age with surprising efficiency.
Later, this cultural shift entered my own home. A US-based relative, roughly my age, told my daughter to skip the formal “uncle” and use his first name instead. She happily obliged. Soon after, while chatting with me, she casually mentioned, “Kapil was saying…” I froze. Kapil? Surely, it should be Mausa-ji or Uncle! Hearing her call an elder relative by his first name felt almost revolutionary—a reaction that revealed more about my own upbringing than her manners.
Another incident sharpened the contrast. The London-based daughter of a senior colleague fell ill while visiting Chandigarh. Her father called to ask if I could arrange some medicines. I did, and when he offered to reimburse me, I waved it away—the amount was small and I viewed her as family. When leaving Chandigarh, she sent back an envelope containing ₹500 marked: “Thanks, Bhawna, for the timely help.”
{{/usCountry}}Another incident sharpened the contrast. The London-based daughter of a senior colleague fell ill while visiting Chandigarh. Her father called to ask if I could arrange some medicines. I did, and when he offered to reimburse me, I waved it away—the amount was small and I viewed her as family. When leaving Chandigarh, she sent back an envelope containing ₹500 marked: “Thanks, Bhawna, for the timely help.”
{{/usCountry}}I smiled. Oddly enough, I would have found “Thank you, auntie” far more natural. No offence was intended, and none was taken, but the gesture highlighted how deeply our notions of courtesy are rooted. To her, using my first name conveyed warmth and informality; to me, it felt more unfamiliar than being called auntie ever had.
That is precisely the point. In India, forms of address do far more than label a person. Auntie, uncle, bhaiya, didi, beta, and the ubiquitous ji map our social terrain. They signpost age, respect, hierarchy, and familiarity all at once.
In the West, first names perform that social function without implying disrespect. Children address adults by their first names comfortably. My daughters, studying abroad, navigate that world with far greater ease than I ever will.
Neither system is superior. The difficulty begins when we treat a form of address as a certificate of age. “Auntie” does not mean “you look old.” It often just means, “you occupy a space in my world that I was taught to acknowledge this way.”
So the next time someone calls you auntie or uncle, there is no need to reach out for the anti-ageing cream. They were simply raised in a different vocabulary of respect. letterschd@hindustantimes.com
The writer, an IAS officer, is principal secretary, prisons, Punjab