Musings of an Ordinary Woman: Rekha Aunty Lives On…

 

Rekha Aunty Lives On…

When I first met Priyanka at NDTV, India’s pioneering news channel, she was the talk of the town. The new weather girl—petite, strikingly good-looking, and a complete sensation. But looks weren’t all we had in common; we were both food enthusiasts, loved to seize every moment for fun, and, most importantly, we were both Biharis!

Priyanka

Now, I’m a true blue Bihari, born, raised, and educated in Patna. After graduating from Delhi University, I found myself working at NDTV, surrounded by the South Delhi elite—the Nepo Kids, as dubbed. Priyanka, or Pinku, as I affectionately called her, was one of them. Her connection to Bihar was as flimsy as a political promise—only her parents hailed from the state. For Pinku, anything beyond the South Delhi bubble was essentially a village.

As a Bihari, politics is in my blood. We can argue passionately about political parties, whether local or global, for hours on end. Pinku, fresh out of college, her knowledge of parties extended only to “pool parties” and “farmhouse parties.”

One day, I asked her if she had ever tried Litti Chokha, Bihar’s national dish. Her response? A puzzled, “What’s that?” I nearly had a cardiac arrest right then and there. But somehow, her South Delhi drawl and my Bihari lilt blended into a good note.

My all time favourite - Litti Chokha

Soon enough, I became a regular at Pinku’s home, where I met her mother, Rekha Aunty. Aunty and I hit it off immediately. With her Bengali heritage, Aunty’s sensibilities were worlds apart from typical Bihari norms. But Pinku didn’t have the bhadralok arrogance; she was pure South Delhite at heart.

Rekha aunty in her heydays

Thanks to Aunty’s phenomenal culinary skills, I tasted dishes like Ilish Machh and Posto for the first time. She added a Bengali twist to my Bihari roots, and we bonded over endless conversations, laughing at trivialities.

One of my favorite memories of Aunty still cracks me up. Having recently moved from Calcutta, she was blissfully unaware of Delhi’s misogynistic quirks. One day, while shopping for a party, she innocently decided to buy some wine. Stepping into a booze shop, she was greeted with catcalls, sneers, and whistles. Aunty, completely baffled by the reaction, bolted out of the store without buying anything. We laughed until our sides ached!

Rekha aunty loved New York

Meanwhile, Pinku and I were making waves at NDTV’s Good Morning India, the country’s first slick private television breakfast show. Pinku started reporting on serious health issues, becoming a pioneer in mental health coverage—an unheard-of topic back then. She even brought the world-renowned Deepak Chopra to the studio for his first major TV interview in India!

Deepak Chopra: the modern Guru | 

We worked hard and partied harder. The fat paychecks made sure of that. Every Friday night, we would raid the latest hotspots in the city, living life king-size.

Though Aunty wasn’t the typical nagging mother, she did feel responsible for me since I didn’t have my own parents around. While she never objected to our partying, she often chided us for wasting time and subtly hinted at the dreaded “settling down”—a phrase that strikes terror into the heart of every young indian.

One day, Aunty suggested that Pinku and I visit Nizamuddin Dargah every Thursday to wish for our marriage. I, being the more amiable one, agreed, while Pinku couldn’t have cared less. Coming from a Sunni Barelvi family that deeply believed in Sufi saints, visiting Dargahs was second nature to me. But as the nineties rolled in, orthodox Wahhabism, imported from Saudi Arabia, began branding the reverence of Sufi saints as heretical. I stopped going to Nizamuddin Dargah, a place I once cherished.

Dargah of Hazrat Nizamuddin, New Delhi

However, for Pinku, the Dargah’s allure wasn’t just spiritual; it was musical. The sufi qawwalis drew her in, especially since she had fallen for a musician who was equally smitten with the mystical music.

When I finally returned to the Dargah, guilt washed over me. My flower lady, who used to sell me incense and flowers, beamed and asked, “Where have you been?” I mumbled something about being busy, too embarrassed to admit I had distanced myself. The familiar scents, the bustling crowd, the beggars pleading for alms—it all felt like coming home.

But Aunty wasn’t done with us. Now, she wanted us to fast every Monday during the auspicious month of Sawan, praying to Lord Shiva for a good husband. I was taken aback. I’m Muslim, and in Islam, worshipping anything other than Allah is forbidden. Yet, the mother’s position is revered in Islam—“Heaven lies beneath her feet,” after all. My logic said no, but my heart couldn’t bear to disappoint Aunty.

So, I found a compromise. I decided to observe a nafli roza, a voluntary fast from sunrise to sunset, every Monday. On Shivratri, Pinku and I went to a Shiva temple, followed all the rituals, and while the priest chanted mantras, I recited verses from the Quran in my heart. I prayed to Allah, seeking his understanding. After the rituals, Pinku, with her brightest smile, turned to me and said, “That was so much fun, na?” 

Life moved on, and so did we—back to working hard and partying harder. Then one day, in the middle of our busy schedules, Pinku burst into the office with big news. Dragging me to the canteen, she excitedly declared, “Mom said you’re getting married!” I was stunned. When? To whom?

Pinku had dreamt of us leaving Nizamuddin Dargah when a little boy ran up to us and spread henna on my palms, turning them bright red—a symbol of marriage in our culture. “What about me?” Pinku asked, crestfallen. I teased her, “Honey, while I was earnestly praying in the temple, you were busy having fun! So obviously, it’s me first!” We both laughed it off.

As fate would have it, the divine smiled upon us. A year later, I met Sajid, and we got married. Six months after that, Pinku married her love, Devjit.

Our marriage pic

Today, in an increasingly polarized India, where signs prohibiting Muslims from entering temples or setting up stalls are commonplace, and where more Muslim women don the hijab than ever before, the coexistence of people like Rekha Aunty and me seems like a fading memory. But Aunty lives on in the legacy she left behind.

Myrrah, Ruhayl with Ishan and Anay | Zuhair with his homies 

Our children are best friends, and my youngest considers Pinku’s twins his first cousins. Pinku and I still do many things together—a family not bound by blood or religion, but by love. As the saying goes, Arif ka kaam, Arif jane! (Allah knows best.)

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