Attack and Recover

There is this mode of therapy in psychiatry called Desensitisation. And unlike a lot of terms in psychiatry, it actually means what a layman might assume.

A person walks in with a diagnosed phobia. You expose them to a small dose of the entity that provokes this "irrational fear". Give them time and space to recover. They return. Rinse and repeat.

Thing is, these doses start out small, but increase progressively. Much like with vaccines, you help this person to slowly build up a response that soon kicks in instinctively. Bigger the threat, bigger the response. Ready for The Forbidden Forest, immune to Aragog.

Attack and recover. Attack and recover.

There's an alternative. Flash desensitisation. Just in and out. A huge dose of stimulus, almost stunning the mind into a sub-habitual response. And then that becomes the learnt response.

Attack and recover and stop. Fingers crossed.

Would you like a consistently low baseline mood, with no significant peaks of happiness and no significant troughs of misery either? Sounds like a fair deal, not having to cope with massive setbacks. Things will never get too rough. And if you've never been too happy, you never know what you're missing out on.

No attacks. No recovery.

Or would you like a state of wilder highs and lows? Intense sorrows to match intense joy, but with a markedly higher baseline mood. It sounds like the definition of living a little, but it could just as well be a recipe for torture to the soul. To have to take the shitstorm in your stride because hey, secondary rainbows every summer.

Attack and recover and rise.

. . .

Seems to me that it's often a progression through the four stages, in that very order.

You take the small hits, you cope. You suffer a big blow, you pause and regroup. Maybe you wall off all future blows; now there's no need to cope. Then one fine day, you step back into the ring - you take a punch, you throw two back, and you give meaning to the process. You rise.

.

There's agony in watching someone pass through the stages, even knowing that it will pass. Watching them allow others to drag them through the stages. Ain't nobody mess with ma homies and their mommas, that kind of agony.

Worse when the others play the victim card to a hungry audience that laps up drama but is impervious to dignity. If only you could card the victim at the door for legit being juvenile; too immature to enter the real world, byebye now.

Feel like an angry warrior on behalf of your homies. Not that they ask it, but because it infuriates you to watch the self-proclaimed victims vilify without a break. Where is all the decency to which they feel so entitled?

Attack and attack and attack. Recovery must wait.

Unchanging Cameo

Rambling away
as you write to
remember,
that which you've left
far behind your today.

Typing away
with line breaks
and commas,
lending your words
profundity unearned.

Thoughts scrambling
scampering
in that vortex,
slipping away
from your sick grimy reach.

Winter approaches
you knew that it would.

But Summer lasted
nary a week.

Living When You Are Less Than Fit

There is something about death and dying that has a powerful draw.


It's certainly palpable. On the rare days that I venture into discussions anymore, I would passionately argue that it borders on tangible. It's all around us, meant for each of us, and indeed, for all our whimsical projects. And yet as topics for consideration go, it is so easily overlooked.

We're just so busy living, making things work, trying something different; reinventing the wheel in the hopes that the rust that has gathered won't matter in the long run. We take the idea of a "long run" for granted, because what other way is there to move forward? How does one not move forward? Is it even possible to stand still without the lurking guilt of stagnation, let alone to take a few steps backward merely to reassess your trajectory?

As a society, as a species, it is ingrained in our cores that we must strive to survive. Get ahead, because that's what we do. Outdo the other's accomplishments, but retain the human courtesy of respecting the other. So engrossed are we in this continuing human pursuit that we would float rudderless if forced to stand still and taking account of time.


The powerful draw of death and dying has much to do with how I understand life and living. Some days, I suspect I don't understand it very much. On all other days, I know I don't. It is a recurring theme in what I write publicly, and yet one that I have few illusions of "decoding".

The 'purpose of life' could consume many lifetimes spent in the cradles of literature, philosophy, metaphysics, and in the knowledge and instincts that govern the vocations of rabbis, sadhus, doctors and counselors. Quite the disbeliever, those are not lifetimes I believe I have the time for, or the time for. I excuse myself from the burden of plotting a blind, arrogant route through these disciplines.

In an uncharacteristic move, I open up to learning from man's follies instead of making experience my guru. I trust that those who have come and gone before me penned their thoughts on the matter - and of course they did, eloquently so. So I dip my toes in, test the waters a little. And within a few texts born of raw prose that is nothing short of a legacy, I come away having re-learnt that one truth:

A little learning is a dangerous thing ;

Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring

I do believe there is a certain rhythm, a set of values each one of us unknowingly puts together over time, and that dictates how we execute the grand task of living. I would think that our personal philosophies of how we live are inextricably linked with how we would conceive dying, were the process to be laid out before each of us as the task of utmost priority, replete with a timeline and a plan of agenda. The connect is so simple and obvious that it amazes me how everyone doesn't bring it up right away. To be in death as you are in life.

Perhaps these values are only exposed in trying times, when there is more at stake than the forgettable priorities that make up the daily mess. Trying times that can befall you directly and indirectly. Perhaps it is only a matter of how hard you are hit. And how vulnerable you let yourself be to this impact has got to be a marker of how strong your core is.

'Survival of the fittest' is a difficult ideal to keep in sight if you no longer rank among the fit, in the conventional sense of the word.

Know Thy Query

It's quite the sham, what people say.

About time healing all, and fissures erased.
Time does nothing but remind you repeatedly
That what once was yours no longer exists.
Matter may reassemble, but never resurrect.

They ask you to smile, for the "fond memories",
Those that may recur, tweaked beyond recognition.
They inquire politely, "Come to terms with it yet?"
You stare, you shrug. The terms are unknown.

"How Are You Doing Today?"

The other day, I heard about this young male journalist who works in Vidarbha. His mother told me. She's in town; her kidneys are in protest mode.

A couple of farms a few districts away are low on men this month. One of the MIA farmers is 25. Some valves in his heart need attention.

One go-to kirana store in a Nanded neighbourhood is unmanned these days. The owner can undergo necessary surgery only half a state away.

Almost everyday now, we make our way through wards full of occupied beds. Males, females. Ages 12 and above.

Youngsters, and then some who could be their grandparents. Parents who have long avoided hospitalisation because their kids would then be alone at home, without help. Middle aged men and middle aged women, with their middle aged siblings and relatives in attendance. There are teenagers, unmindful of the gravity of their stay at the hospital; their parents stand by and overcompensate.

The entire spectrum of backgrounds, moods, conditions, support and coping mechanisms, brought together on a floor partitioned a few times over.

Man hours slip by without hesitation, and daily wagers, with their implicit faith in our badgeless white aprons, ask how soon they can return to work.

Human lives, all with their own intricately detailed stories, surround us in those wards. And all we're equipped to do right now is record patients' histories. Onset, progression, duration. Aggravating factors. Relieving factors.

To talk, in a clear, friendly and systematic manner. Work out a provisional diagnosis. Tell yourself that you're quite the stud. Rinse and repeat.

The human angle kicks you in the face when you walk past a patient later that day, or the following day, no longer in need of their account of their illness.

When you choose to slow down to nod, to smile, to ask how they're doing. To ask if they've eaten, if the doctor has been to see them today. To ask that ailing teenager's mother if he has been troubling her too much.

And out of nowhere, with a gesture as small and commonplace as that, you watch as eyes light up - you discover that it's not just a figure of speech. Smiles split open resting faces, even faces of those who launch into a series of complaints right after. A cheeky grin sometimes puts in an appearance and you're struck by how right and happy it looks.

Who would believe this person has a file full of grim reports?

You grin back. Figure you're probably at the happiest bed in the ward. Then grin a little more because, well, you had something to do with it and modesty must not come in the way of wide grins.

Continue on your way, feeling like a total stud. Acknowledge that the patients and their relatives are studlier still, for giving you that moment.

Why, you'll be invincible once you can truly fix the cause behind patients' complaints. 

Invincible and intolerable.

The Inertia Of Existence: Debunked

That which takes birth must die. That which begins must end.

One could argue that this is the founding law, the very basis of Nature. The crux around which all else took form. If you'd rather do away with laws and imagine death as the point of convergence instead, you could say that the grand End is the culmination of the vortex in which all of existence is swept along. Or perhaps each entity is in a vortex of its own, and that culminates (how!) as the End of that entity. Possibilities abound, and they would make for some fascinating illustrations.

We're usually so fascinated by the End and how it comes about, that we forget to study how things live. Pathology beats Physiology. Dramatic and sensational beats the ongoing, the mundane, hands down. But "you have to understand normal before you can identify abnormal". That's the 1st MBBS mantra as far as our faculty and textbooks are concerned, and it makes a whole lot of sense to me. 

If we can extend that line of thought to say that the "normal" state of existence is being alive, and that the "abnormal" is death (or "not existing"), I will echo that studying the normal, the living state, is of paramount importance. It's what will allow you to prolong the normal and avert the abnormal. You could make anything the subject of this study and it would be valid. That weed creeping about your garden. A pet, a friend. An emotion, your convictions. Relationships. The ruling government.

So do these things survive simply because they don't die? Because nothing comes along to uproot, kill, convert or impeach them? It seems spot on, right? The Inertia of Existence. That once things take shape, they stay that way unless acted upon by an external force. After all, Newton was a very smart man, and Aristotle did get bashed a fair bit.

But perhaps there is a different system at work here, in lives that don't adhere to ideal situations. A system in which friction is an inbuilt feature, so deeply embedded that we don't give it a second thought.

Entities in our non-hypothetical lives survive because they are kept alive - not just because they are born, not just because they don't die. There are external inputs, whether we notice them or not, whether we feel the need for them or not. These inputs check and balance activity (homeostasis!) such that you don't pay much attention to their role. But they avert the abnormal at every step. One fine day, something leads to the drying up of inputs over time. It could be lack of reserves, it could be poor timing or a stroke of bad luck, it could be sheer negligence. When the supply of these inputs dries up, the entity starts to degenerate, approaching its inevitable End. And as stupefying as it is obvious, that's when we begin to deconstruct matters.

Sure, the drying up of inputs, the end of an external event, leads to the larger End. But the Living is made possible by inputs. And it would be wonderful if we were to not lose sight of that.

That weed in your garden still needs its water and soil and sunlight and fresh air. That relationship with your friend or partner needs your time and concern and initiative and effort. You may see the weed as thoroughly undesirable, and you may actively consider that relationship the anchor of your existence; you may be fascinated by the weed's unending growth spurt, and you may view that relationship as an unchanging constant - Your perception of the entity does not affect the fact that it needs something to go on.

The weed will wilt on its own if the soil around it was to turn barren. The relationship will cease to exist if you call upon each other only when you seek comfort. It was not enough for that seed to sprout open. And it never will be enough that you first shared sweet nothings many moons ago.

It would indeed seem that life in general is geared towards the End, and that we only keep putting it off. Stubborn in our belief that the next day is guaranteed, as is the year after that, even the next twenty. Stubborn because inputs that we take for granted are expected to just keep flowing in. 

Suspend the belief that you get to "wait and watch" how matters proceed. Every entity, every relationship, every academic program you will ever undertake is an ongoing process - and it needs active participation from both ends to sustain, let alone flourish.

This may not find a respectful place in the next pathbreaking textbook on blog-derived physics gyan, but to this layman, empirical evidence suggests thus -

That which gets moving needs pushes to keep moving. That which exists needs something to keep it alive.

The Girl Who Wanted To Do Medicine Mid-BMM

... got down to it post-BMM :)

And if she's being honest with you, she'll admit she's not always sure what got into her.

My path to becoming a MBBS student has been unconventional, to put it mildly. It's haphazard enough that I can't blame you for thinking I'm still flopping around without really knowing my mind. 

Summer '12, I graduated with a neat, journalism-heavy Bachelor of Mass Media degree. Bright future, healthy prospects, yay sunshine! Decided to do the medicine thing by July. Studied, got through, got started monsoon '13. Things happened.

One funny aspect of this whirlwind process was that my prep-time concerns had little in common with those of students alongside whom I prepared for the slew of entrance exams. (I also didn't own a fancy ass smartphone like all of them did.) After almost two years, I find that scenario amusing and alarming in equal parts.

For starters, I was extremely skeptical about my own decision to take up medicine. More than anyone else around me (parents were thrilled). Was it a knee jerk reaction, was I being rash just because I yearned a radical change, was I being influenced by transient influencers, would my interest in this program even last the duration of 5 1/2 years? Why MBBS, and why now? Messy mind, messy times.

[Fun sidenote: A quick "Why MBBS?" survey with a sample of maybe 30 classmates got me answers like big money, status, help people. Had the marks, parents pushed, didn't know what else to do. Parents own a hospital, a nursing home and 50 doctors already, so... giggle giggle. One guy even said he found this stuff interesting! I now think people find their reason for sticking with the field by the end of MBBS, seldom at the outset.]

Meanwhile, entrance exam prep was underway. Reasons and non-reasons aside, I wanted the assurance that I deserved to be at a "good" medical college. That I deserved a seat, and to be a part of this field. I also had to justify to myself the overwhelming generosity and support I received from family, friends, the boyfriend.

Through all of this, it never occurred to me to consider what would happen if I didn’t crack the entrances. I think I simply expected that I would, completely disregarding the 4 year gap from PCB and problem sets. Naive and in denial and what? Those who knew of the grand plan never once discussed the possibility of not getting in. It's almost as if it was a foregone conclusion in everyone’s mind. I now suspect that was a morale-building kindness on their part, but it's still something I marvel at. How could we not have discussed it!?

Crazy, crazy year. Didn't turn out all perfect, but I'm pretty damn happy about it. 

I'm learning about things I often wondered about. I actually get excited about concepts that are new to me. The human body is stuffed with delightful intricacies, and very little compares to the satisfaction of putting them together to make sense of actions and reflexes that we take for granted. I expect it's only going to get better as the puzzle becomes richer, more detailed. I'm in this place because I want to be here, and it's a very happy place.

Very very happy, indeed!

For the longest time, I kept this medicine plan off places like Facebook and this blog (I started a second, secret blog instead - also something that no one reads) because I wanted some people to hear about this from me, in person. A lot of teachers from highschool era and BMM, some friends, some family. Most people I managed to get to first, some I regrettably didn't. 

But in the unlikely event that someone out there is actually offended they're finding out like this, via a blog post, my excuse is ready - the stark contrast in the typical response a newly admitted Ist MBBS student receives, and the response I tend to receive. 

Typical response - "Wow! Congrats, Doctor. Free treatment for me, yeah?" 
Despite receiving all these quip-like warnings about free treatment in the future, this newly admitted Ist MBBS student is so excited he wants to let everyone in on the wonderful news! Honeymoon phase.

What I get - "Um.. wut? You? But BMM.. Really? EXPLAIN."
Yeah, it's my own doing. No, I don't want or expect the typical response. I understand that this is a shock, not a surprise. But it is exhausting explaining things to every well-meaning inquirer from the start, all details included. Plus I've been busy, had a lot of studying to do ;)


Very little about any of this has been shared by me with very few current classmates. Sure, word probably spreads and that's okay - convenient, even. Some might find out via this blog post, as and when I start mixing on Facebook. Some might consider it a grand betrayal if they find out much much later. Can’t get myself to care about that right now. I suspect plenty will have happened by then to make my odd entry to medicine nothing more than a piece of trivia. Two seconds of fame and charcha, at most. Relating to my classmates - I no longer refer to them as "those kids" all the time - yeah, that's a whole different story.


I wrote this cheesy novella today because it's long overdue, because it's an easy way of EXPLAINing, and because I wanted a break from studying for finals haha. 

I don't really know what my advice to someone in the same (can't be that common) a similar situation ought to be. I can tell you it's a lot of fun to dive in headfirst. Doubts and misgivings are a part of the process. I promise you you'll get a kick out of it all even months and years later. Mine was a nerdy way of doing it, but it helps you realise that you really can take on anything - it's good practice, and trust me, you can never have enough practice. It is infinitely helpful to have a support system along the way, doesn't matter how small it is, or how self reliant you usually are. You become more appreciative, more grounded. And if things work out, you get to do something you're really into. 

As important as the logistics, if not more, is to have a good reason for diving in - even if it's one that you can't quite explain to everyone who asks. 

Brasso For This Blog

I haven't blogged in over a year! Feels like five. When I'm asked what I do for fun now, aside from college (later, tell you later), it doesn't even cross my mind to say I blog off and on.

I miss being able to sound all cool and bloggerly haha.


I miss shooting off posts and then saving half of them as drafts instead of publishing right away. The joys and shivers of revisiting the junk you wrote yesterday.. I miss that as well. All the stuff on this blog was written so long ago that nostalgia overpowers all self-critical editing instincts.

Editing, be it someone else's writing or my own, now that's something I'm not sure I miss. But it's okay, I've set myself up for a lifetime of fixing things as and when they turn clunky and inefficient.


I think one of the nicest things about writing regularly is that occasionally, not necessarily often, you author something that resonates with a reader. Nicer still if you get to hear about it! Sometimes that reader is a surprise or a complete stranger, sometimes it's someone who you always suspected didn't really like you at all, and sometimes it's exactly the reader you had in mind while writing. Haan rest of the time it's the same old "chaar log" who comprise your entire readership..

It's nice to be able to strike a chord somewhere. With present day readers, and with your future self.


I know I didn't have any of this in mind when I blogged back then. But going through some old posts today had me feeling so grateful for having written them when I did. And it's simply not about which ones got tons of hits (none did).

A post about my scene with the Army, that's a post I'm grateful for. It came at a good time, and I appreciate more than I would've expected that even my father read it.

The wonderful reassurance that I had some serious imagination game at age four, and the sense to write about it at age 18.

There's stuff that makes me want to go back in time and pat my past-self's head. Not like the Pillsbury doughboy, no. But come on, just read about my woes! Too cool.

There's wisdom.

And senti aplenty.

And pain that I must endure until I frickin' die.

I want to give future-me more of this stuff.

Selfish agenda is selfish. And how I talk and write is probably outdated!


There are a lot of things that were an integral part of who I was and what I did two, three, four years ago. And some of them simply aren't anymore.

That's okay. That's welcome!

But I think blogging off and on is something I want to bring back into my routine.


So hi again =)

Cooking With Mushrooms From The Himalayas

Dinnertime, perhaps Sunday. Just as I get up to rinse my empty plate.

“This young student of mine, she brought me a packet of dried mushrooms from Kashmir/Himachal.”

I stare.

Nani repeats herself. Tells me it’s in her purse.

I continue to stare. Predictably, she stares back.

Finally, yours truly, “Wow. Okay. That’s really nice of her. So you’ve been hauling these mushrooms in your purse all day?”

“Yes. Get me my purse. Let’s see what we can do with them.”

I did well not to laugh. Certain expectations would be awesome to have met.

“But I don’t know if there’s some specific way of cooking these, they look different. I’ll look it up

online. See if you can think of something.”

Consider it done, Nani.

- - -

While I usually can put together a decent meal, I was recently required to respond to “No seriously, have you ever made anything good?” Fair question, since the asker is invariably on the receiving end of worst-case-scenario versions of my impromptu jugaad-heavy dishes (apologies, heartfelt as always), but really not one you want to consider in all seriousness. 

Come Tuesday, it’s way past breakfast hours. Since I’m hungry and it isn’t noon yet, let’s think breakfast hours anyway. I decide to cook; mushrooms on my mind. I genuinely thought fixing breakfast might help recover from the affront to my skills. No room for performance anxiety and/or bad omens since I’d only be cooking for myself. More importantly, I could leisurely discover whether those “different” looking mushrooms were any fun at all.

I’ll spare you the cheap suspense. The mushrooms did look different. The packet contained thin longitudinal slices that eventually browned and shrivelled up into small, dull, twisted scraps. Shades of brown and black. Some even had a rind-like outline. Interesting enough to look at, I suppose. Cooking some with eggs took all of fifteen minutes, and that suited me just fine. The first spoonful was funny, not quite what I expected. A few more confirmed that these scraps were nothing like regular mushrooms! Elaborate rambling recipe below. 

You will need: 

• Eggs, 2, whisked with about 2 tbsp milk, and as much chilli powder, salt and pepper as you fancy. Whisking with a fork will work out better than with a spoon.
• Tomato, 1 small, cut however you like.*
• Mushrooms! As many scraps as you like, more the merrier and such. I’m pretty sure I was close to a dozen.
• Cheese, 1 slice. Because it’s available. Don’t be weird bothering with a knife now.
• Green chilli, 1 diced, if you want. Yeah of course this was an impromptu jugaad-heavy dish. Getting inspired by the bare minimum you can find in your fridge is key.
• Oil, enough to sauté your tomatoes in.

 * You won’t care about the shape and size if the dish tastes good and regardless of the intended shape, the tomatoes will shrivel up into something extremely ugly if you do goof up while cooking. Just keep the seedy pulp out of the way, so dicing might be preferable to round slices.

The cooking part of things:

• Heat the oil, medium flame, add tomatoes. Feel like a fancy chef as you move them around. Add mushroom, move things around some more. Now’s also the time to add those green chillies and any other stir-fry-able things you have lying around. Please don’t wait for your tomatoes to get mushy or for other things to blacken.
  
• Once the scraps of mushrooms have softened, pour in the soupy egg mix. It’ll taste better than it looks.
  
• The translucent eggy bits will begin to turn opaque, that’s when you tear your slice of cheese into pieces and space them out all over the eggs and veggies. See, no knife required.
  
• To turn your snack into a chunky omelette, reduce flame and cover with a lid, perhaps leaving some room for steam to let out. Check every now and then, I really doubt there’s a defined timeframe for this kind of thing. Consider flipping over your omelette once the base comes together and the top isn’t all runny. Once done, cheer or curse as is appropriate.
  For a scrambled eggs version, something I approve of, you really just keep scrambling. Lid off, obviously. Don’t allow chunks of egg to stick to the bottom forever. Have patience; let things cook.
  
• Now is a good time to realise you’d like some buttered toast to go with this. You could just finish cooking this stuff and risk having it cool down a bit while you fix the toast – or you could let it simmer while you put the toaster to use. I’m sorry the butter is all hard, you should’ve thought of this sooner.
  
• Shut out any new ideas. Load everything on a plate, fix yourself a glass of water/juice/whatever if you like, pick up your fork (please at least rinse the one with which you whisked the eggs) and evenly spear mushroom, tomato and egg.
  
• Grin as the fork moves from plate to mouth. Picture the most hilarious things that could happen with funny mushrooms from the Himalayas.
  
• Tell me if those cooked mushrooms taste odd, kinda sweet. Like apples from a healthy orchard.
  Mine did. 

I Speak For 'Uncle-Aunty'

Of late, amongst other interesting [possibly more surprising, and admittedly more discussion-worthy] things, I've taken to strolling through Quora. Fun place, because you don't feel like you're barging in on people unexpectedly, but you still get in on often-great responses to sometimes-great queries about this or that or that or that. Or that. Or even that. There's everything left to be learnt, yessir.

One such stroll led me to a question that amused me at first - How should parents ask their children's friends to address them, and for what reasons? I said I was strolling, quit judging.

As I read the answers posted [you can read them here, sign up/in because it'll be worth it], I couldn't help but feel like the West has been missing the point altogether. Why do you want a special name for yourself anyway? Why can't that kid's name for you be mass produced and in common with all his peers, just like his breakfast and his innerwear? Are you more special to that kid than his breakfast or innerwear? Okay, touchy topic. 

Still, the question prompted a quick checklist of why India's 'Uncle/Aunty' tradition gets my enthusiastic vote. I quite like that this list of benefits isn't restricted to friend's parents.. we're inclusive like that! Obviously, not all points apply to every Uncle/Aunty I've ever spoken with. So if you're one, do try and look at the brighter side of points.. even if points are supposed to be zero dimensional. 

Since this is the closest you may ever get to a rational, public dissection of a rare moment of national pride, be sure to think about it after you switch tabs.

• At the very least, I see the 'Uncle/Aunty' system as acknowledging that the said adult is older than I, period.
  
  I don't have to respect a person in order to respect their age and the experience [whether superior or misguided] that comes with it. Nor do I need to bother with a silly speculation about relative worth and dignity and whatnot to call someone Uncle and not Mahesh or Mr Mahesh. I'm just acknowledging the age difference, nice and simple. 

• I don't have to know you to call you Aunty! That makes things civil more often than not. Doesn't mean you're my favourite.
  You could be that sweaty, smelly, whiny lady on the train - especially the one with all that hair left open for me to nuzzle - who insists on sharing the sorrows of a stubbed toe from Vashi to Kurla, throughout realigning her hip against mine and digging her inconsiderately designed, boxy, brass-studded purse into my ribs. I might want to growl at you and stamp all your toes and donate a hairclip or two while I'm at it, but I will still call you Aunty when I ask you to move a wee bit away from my crotch. I RESPECT YOUR AGE, ANONYMOUS AUNTY. I also don't like you very much.

• Continuing from the lack of like involved, this system simply isn't dependent on how close you are to that [older] adult.
  If you're close and/or both want a different, special name or if your equation changes in some way that warrants a new term, the path to redressal is clear. If not, no harm done!  Since all our languages provide a host of names for older male and female relatives, it's not like 'Uncle/Aunty' have any special or familiar overtones. So my parents' closest friends that I may or may not be close with, my favouritest neighbour from when I was a kid, my boyfriend's mother, the security staff or cashier at a mall, the stranger walking ahead of me and that evil lady on the train can all be my Aunties. And no one finds this offensive! They might if they give this universality some thought, but at least until I pointed it out, no one minded.

• Along with ^, it also absolves you of the need to know the adult's first name.
  
  For those of us used to the UAT [cool cultural feature merits an acronym, no?], I think that's actually a fairly unlikely thing for to know, the first name of your friend's parent. I can always refer to them as "X's mom" should the need arise. It's also very convenient during introductions, moments of forgetfulness and evaluations of occupied memory space in one's mind.

• Loses the stiff formality of Mr/Mrs, but retains some measure of distance anyway.
  
  That way your friends won't wind up with a complex about your equation with their parents. Tell me how that's undesirable.

• Usable regardless of the language you are speaking!
  
  As in case of other English words [think "hello/okay/bye/side please/thenks"], these terms have percolated across languages and are understood and accepted by many-to-most even in rural India. I've actually had someone insist that "okay" is a Telugu word, so you'll just have to trust me on this percolation theory.
• Once it catches on, it can provide inspiration for popular dialogues, weirdly catchy songs, even the odd search history preference.
  
  Deny any of it and you would be labelled low on creativity, and woefully ignorant of your own culture.