The Ballygunge Aunties

© 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆 

(With much help & inspiration from several friends in my WhatsCrapp group)

Many of us who’ve ever navigated the glorious chaos of South Calcutta know exactly what it meant to walk past those crumbling old Ballygunge buildings. You know them, once grand enough to feature in a Tagore sonnet, now accessorized with peeling paint, rust-streaked pipes, and balconies that looked one monsoon away from becoming breaking news.

The verandahs, perpetually dirt-caked no matter how many times they were attacked with a brittle phuljharoo, (broom) stood as monuments to decades of futile sweeping The enforcers of this never-ending battle were ancient, grumbling grandma figures affectionately known as kaki ma part-time cleaners, full-time gossip channels, and post-lunch card sharks. The dust never left, and frankly, neither did they. It was as if the buildings themselves had accepted their fate: “this is who we are now.”

Walls displayed patches of exposed brick like vintage flair, and the tall, weary pillars holding up the balconies looked like they needed therapy, scaffolding, or both. Their jagged concrete edges could draw blood at the slightest touch because what's childhood without mild tetanus risk?

But more formidable than any crumbling infrastructure were these ladies in their Balconies, the Ballygunge Aunties. You would hear them before you saw them, voices tuned somewhere between “parliament session” and “Eden Gardens commentary” These weren’t just aunties. They were fortress commanders of their respective buildings, maintaining 360-degree visual coverage and an airtight embargo on anything remotely suspicious. 

And here’s the thing - many of us can relate to these Aunties, whether we grew up in Ballygunge or Ballia or Balarampur. Every neighborhood had them. The faces may have differed, the accents may have shifted, but the death stares, unsolicited advice, and the uncanny ability to extract your entire life story without ever asking a direct question? Timeless. Pan-Indian. Iconic.

The Neighborhood Watch Aunties were more effective than CCTV and had better memory retention than your bank's customer verification system. No oshobhyo chhélé (ill-mannered youth) with collar flipped up, shirt buttons undone past the point of decency, sideburns sharp enough to dice onions escaped their gaze. Light a beedee anywhere in their line of sight? Congratulations, your mom already knows. Girls weren’t spared either. The dupatta-to-bare shoulder ratio was a carefully observed metric. The moment it disappeared into a bag post-Auntie Zone? Busted. Oh, she knew!

And then came those winter visits home. After years of blissful anonymity abroad, you’d casually stroll down Dover Lane only to be ambushed by a voice from a third-floor balcony:  

“Arre tui?! Kobe eli?!”  (Oh, You! When did you arrive?)

It wasn’t so much a greeting as it was a neighborhood-wide alert, an emotional flare shot into the sky about return of the prodigal.

You’d reply with a sheepish, “Aajke dupure!”  (this afternoon) loud enough to cut through honking cars and existential discomfort. But of course, Auntie wasn’t finished.  

“Kothay jachhish?” (Where to?)

Excuse me, ma’am. Must I now broadcast my coordinates to the entire 18th block? Should I submit a flight plan to the residents’ association?

Of course, no Ballygunge ecosystem was complete without the resident grumpy retiree dadu, stationed permanently at ground level on a faded plastic chair, like a particularly judgmental garden gnome, clutching a day-old Anandabazar Patrika creases so deep it doubled as a flyswatter, he glared at the world like it owed him back rent. The newspaper wasn’t for reading anymore; it was a prop, a symbol of authority. A scepter for the monarchy of passive aggression.

His daily routine included muttering about politics, loudly lamenting “ajker chhélédér obostha,” (the state of today's youngsters) and maintaining mental records of the doodhwala, fruit vendor, sabjiwala, raddiwala, postman, khabar kagaz-wala, and many more. None dared to enter his domain without acknowledgment. Occasionally, he’d shuffle his chair for better shade or improved surveillance range, but mostly, he sat, stoic, unblinking, a sentinel of sourness. Silently judging your footwear, your return time, your very existence.

And just a few meters away, near the corner of the street, stood the Bappan tea stall, a semi-permanent structure made of bent tin sheets, a rickety wooden bench, and the power to convene an entire para’s worth of opinions. The chai-walla ran it with the stoicism of a man who had seen too much. No matter the time of day, the kettle steamed like it had secrets, and so did the customers. Chhotu, his little helper, was constantly running around delivering tea to the customers like Speedy Gonzales. 

Among them, without fail, was the know-it-all jobless guy. Every neighborhood had one. His employment status was nebulous at best, but his confidence was recession-proof. He had an opinion on everything, politics, cricket, your cousin’s marriage prospects, and he delivered it with the assurance of someone who had once read a headline and never let go. He spoke with the tone of an expert, yet mysteriously had nowhere else to be. Ever. He was always there, leaning against a wall, sipping tea like it was laced with omniscience, and launching into unsolicited TED Talks on topics no one asked for.

Together, they formed the unshakable foundation of the old neighborhood—the Aunties, the dadu, the tea-stall philosopher, the gossiping kaki ma's, and the eternal surveillance state of Ballygunge

Alas, now it's all fading away, but oh, what a glorious, noisy, meddlesome memory it has been.

And now? Silence. The balconies are empty. The grills, once bolstered daily by an elbow and an opinion, are quietly rusting. The pillars still threaten bloodshed, but no one watches you brush past them. No one calls your name from above. No one asks where you’re going. No one cares that you're in shorts in January.

The Ballygunge Aunties, once with a field of vision like an array of Hubble telescopes, are long gone. And weirdly, without their finger wagging and unsolicited interrogation... I find myself again, in the middle of this cacophony, but it’s kind of lonely.

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© 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆