Aunty Socialism. Or, "Why is My Mom on Facebook?"

As an avid observer of the burgeoning aunty community in Kobe, Japan (aka, aunty capital of the Far East. Didn't think there were Indians in Japan? Oh boy. Do we have a long way to go. I'm saving that for another entry.) I can attest to the fact that these fierce forty and fifty-somethings, contrary to what their sweet, sari-clad exteriors may suggest, mean serious business.

As a child, they were merely high-pitched hello's on the phone, quizzing me on whether I recognized their voices, one "kemcho" virtually indistinguishable from the other. Their presence was particularly memorable during my high school years, when their kohl-rimmed lashes eyeballed my every move, itching to see me mess up so they could serve the story up right next to their piping hot parathas at the next lunch party. i.e.: "Did you see [fill in the blank]'s daughter, walking home with that...*insert ominous pause*...BOY in the middle of the night? And her skirt? I tell you, these international schools, god knows what they're teaching our kids. And if they're doing this now,I just shudder to think of what they'll do in*insert a longer, ominous pause* America. Her poor mother. But really, that's none of our business. Here, have some achaar. Arre, have, have."

Eventually, college happened and I was relieved to know of an auntyless existence, blissful, relaxed and free to er, "walk home" with anyone I wanted to. For the last few months, though, I've sensed their presence, slowly slithering its way back into my life...ironically enough, as technology fine-tunes itself, so does an aunty's stakeout method. Enter Facebook. Little did Mark Zuckerberg know that his billion-dollar cyber baby would strike a chord with a cluster of inquisitive Indian housewives in Japan. While some are seeing it as an opportunity to scope out potential brides for their eligible twenty-somethings others check in on their unruly teenagers, following a trail of scandalous wall posts. It's the final frontier of snooping, and the end of a precious little thing called personal space. For all you panic-stricken kiddies out there, struggling to hold on to your platform of privacy, two words : Limited Profile. And if your mom tries to add you, for god's sake, reject the request.