There’s one thing that unites Indians and Singaporeans (and indeed all Asians): showing respect for your elders.
The Cultural Atlas website (culturalatlas.sbs.com.au), for example, explains that in India seniors are treated with respect, their feet often touched in greeting, and in Singapore filial piety is woven into the fabric of society.
But as I’ve aged, both in India and Singapore (I tend to age everywhere), I’ve wished that my fellow countrymen would cool it a bit.
I started wishing this at the tender age of 24, newly married and recently moved to Jamshedpur, Bihar.
As my wife and I were opening the door to our apartment for the first time, a man walked out of the next door. With his thick moustache and three-day stubble he looked approximately my age. The prospect of a friend next door perked me up. Then he spoke.
“Hello uncle; hello aunty,” he said. “Hello,” I said coldly and offered him my hand. “I’m Paddy. And you?”
I thought he’d recognise his error and address me by my name.
“I’m Ajit, uncle,” he said. “I just finished my B. Com and am looking for a job.”
Perhaps my hint had been too subtle.
“I just started my first job after college,” I said. “Just like you,” I added to drive the point home. “That’s great, uncle,” he said.
Over time, we often met in the corridor, and he never let go of the nephew’s deference for the wise, aged uncle.
A few years later, my wife and I met another young man in another apartment corridor in another city. At six feet five inches, he towered over us and in the dim light looked dangerous.
I remember thinking that if I had met him in a dark, lonely alley, I’d have handed him my wallet and watch without waiting to be asked. As he greeted us, it became obvious that he had met my wife previously.
“Hello Akka (elder sister),” he said, “nice to see you again.” I smiled: the man knew how to impart respect without making the recipient feel aged. He looked pleasant and gentle; I rebuked myself for thinking he looked dangerous.
“And this must be your husband?” the fine fellow continued. “Hello uncle! So nice to meet you at last.”
“Nasty specimen,” I said to my wife when we entered our flat. “Doesn’t he look like a Bollywood villain?” “Of course not!” she said. “He looks sweet and innocent.”
A shiver ran down my spine. Would I leave my wife behind in this process of ageing, collecting “uncles” at every corner while she remained a demure “Akka’”?
As long as we shared the rewards of seniority equally and laughed together at the foibles of youth, the situation was bearable. But if “Akka” were to find every lout who called me “uncle” endearing and lovable, I’d be left to laugh alone.
It was a chilling prospect. I don’t laugh well alone.
But soon she became “aunty’’ again, and equanimity was restored.
When we came to Singapore, where deference to elders is a deeply ingrained social norm, we were gratified that Singaporeans mostly use the terms “uncle” and “aunty” when addressing elderly service providers, such as taxi drivers and restaurant staff. We were spared… by the locals.
But not by a few NRIs still steeped in the uncle and aunty syndrome.
Once, as we exited the lift at our building, a couple was struggling to enter it with a load of shopping bags. Both were in their late forties, the man was balding, and among the few hairs left on his head, the colour grey dominated. My wife and I helped them carry the bags into the lift.
“Thank you so much,” the man said. “It’s so kind of you, uncle.”
“I have more hair on my head than you,” I wanted to say, but the lift had left.
Two days after this I was talking to my 26-year-old son in Mumbai.
“You won’t believe this, Appa (dad),” he said. “In the lift today, I met a man in his thirties taking his six-year-old son to school. The boy called me ‘uncle’! I felt very old.”
“Don’t worry,” I told him. “Once you marry, college graduates will also call you ‘uncle’!”
