Aunts Aren't Gentlemen

If you have been a Wodehouse fan and know of Aunt Agatha – the one who eats broken glass for dinner and has been known to maim people for life with an unspoken word – it will gladden your heart to hear that I had an aunt made in that mould (which word, as you know, could mean fungus as well.  English is a funny language, but any such resemblance would be utterly coincidental).  

Her name, as I shall now amend and christen, was Aunt Susheela.  

Aunt Susheela was (for she is no more) a legend in her lifetime.  A dumpy, rotund lady, with thick spectacles, she spoke in short, rapid bursts – the analogy to gunfire is entirely appropriate – in a tone that varied from the blunt to the censuring and, on suitable occasion, to the hysterical.  The impact on humanity in the city in which she lived was most devastating: street vendors otherwise known for their aggression would cower and plead, maids would walk faster once they reached the floor on which she stayed, lest they were made an offer of a job they couldn’t refuse, taxi drivers –  of those days, in the black-and-yellow ambassadors -  would be hushed into a petrified silence and so on.  You get the picture.  

Yet, none of this language equalled, or even came close to, what must have been the most frightening stare of all, an unspoken, unblinking, malevolent glare that was the first catalyst for climate change, for it was known to melt glaciers.   

There she’d sit, by the large window in her living room, shaking her knees in a rhythmic way and fixing you in the spotlight as parts of your body seem to disengage and shiver independently.  Her husband tried hard to work late, run errands and keep himself busy outside the home.  Being a gentle, warm sort – the classic Lord Elmsworth of Wodehouse – he was accommodative and understanding, yet that empathy seemed to have little effect on Aunt Susheela.  Indeed, his spirit of accommodation in larger family matters only seemed to have pulled the trigger on occasions, engendering volleys, barbs, sarcasm, innuendo and rancour that would unsettle a Donald Trump.  

The only person who seemed entirely inured to her stare and verbal assault was a faithful manservant who did all the cooking and about everything else (for Aunt Susheela did, in a nutshell, nothing).  He must have been secretly deaf or dense between the ears to be this immune to what can most politely be called feedback, and, under the circumstances, it was an asset to the family to have him. 

We met the family typically once a year when I was in my young, formative years (I am now in older, formative years), and I learnt to spend the day in their home giving the Rock Star a wide berth.  When I did make a public appearance, it would be by clinging to my mother’s sari.  In those years, Aunt Susheela seemed to have some fondness for me, if a rapid volley of statements and instructions followed by a smile could be termed fondness, but I had once seen her go after her son with a kitchen knife, so it was best to wear a helmet at all times and go for the bunker.  I understand from family lore – we need more of it – that my father, who was considered to be the senior statesman, had a sobering effect on the aunt,  for when he was around, she seemed to be a trifle constrained, held back on a cloth leash, if you see what I mean but such setbacks were temporary and piffling in nature for what I have termed, post facto, a cask of trinitrotoluene talent.

Among her unusual traits was a certain parsimony: she'd ask my mother exactly how much each of us would eat for lunch or dinner – and exactly so much would be made.  Now, this is hugely appreciative, for wasting food isn’t high on anyone’s agenda.  Yet, this also meant that if, like Oliver Twist, you asked for more, you would receive a stare that would instantly fill your belly; you’d then find yourself lowering the head and pleading silent forgiveness.  The family trunk we carried always had emergency rations - biscuits - to tide over this unforgivable lapse in assessment of need. 

In later years, she took an active dislike to me for reasons that I shan't labour on, and,  recognising that I was now in august company of about a million people, I chose to keep it that way.  Thankfully, all interaction – the stare and the short, rapid burst, followed by serve and volleys – ended.  Yet, meeting other family members, all of whom were most amused, if not somewhat concerned by this path of avoidance that I took, kept me fully informed of Aunt Susheela’s current state of tongue motility - lashes per second for the uninitiated. 

Much later in years, I had a nightmare in which I visited their dwelling.  In this horrific experience, I was in Aunt Susheela’s house, seated uncomfortably on the edge of the sofa with another relative, while she stared unblinkingly at me with malevolence, her pursed lips holding back vitriol and the fingers clenched around an imaginary throat.  About ten minutes later when I awoke with a fright, it was unsurprising to know that the knees were rather liquid inside and the heart was doing a lively gig.  For such was the legacy of the legend.  

And, that was when, in a flash of inspiration, I developed the now world-famous (and patented) Stare Index, which measures intensity of stare, the unit of measurement being – as you have no doubt rightly guessed – the Richter Scale.  

My friend, Jams, has a poster in his office room, right behind his chair, so that all who sit in front of him see it.  It says, “Everybody brings joy to this room.  Some when they enter and others when they leave.”  When I learnt of Aunt Susheela’s demise, a silent obit that formed itself in my head took its inspiration from that risible piece of literature.