Anuradha Marwah’s Aunties of Vasant Kunj is a brilliantly crafted novel that blends sharp wit, keen social observation, and heartfelt empathy to paint a vivid portrait of middle-class existence in Delhi.
Through the lives of three central characters—Shailaja, Nilima (also called Mrs Gandhi), and Dinitia (affectionately known as Dini)—Marwah explores the complex web of companionship, societal expectations, and personal longing that defines their world.
The setting, Vasant Kunj—a bustling and chaotic middle-income housing colony—becomes almost a character in itself, with its cramped apartments, erratic utilities, and ever-watchful neighbours contributing to the fabric of the story.
Right from the novel’s memorable opening, where Shailaja stands observing “the undulating progress of her blue second-hand refrigerator astride two glistening shoulders,” Marwah’s distinctive voice shines through. Her prose brims with sensory detail and subtle humour, effortlessly drawing readers into the world of Shailaja—a single, middle-aged academic who has recently left a long-term relationship.
Shailaja’s efforts to piece together a new life in a modest top-floor flat—chosen because it was “the cheapest option”—are tinged with both quiet resilience and deep vulnerability. The neighbourhood’s silent scrutiny and thinly veiled judgement loom over her as she tries to find her footing.
Marwah’s skill in capturing the awkward dance of neighbourly interactions is evident in Shailaja’s first meeting with Nilima Gandhi and her boisterous son, Ganesh. Nilima’s intrusive questioning—“What does your husband do?” followed swiftly by “Divorced?”—perfectly encapsulates the unfiltered curiosity and relentless commentary that often accompany life in such close-knit communities.
With equal parts humour and sensitivity, Aunties of Vasant Kunj lays bare the emotional landscapes of its protagonists as they confront loneliness, forge unexpected bonds, and seek purpose amid the chaos of everyday existence.
What makes Aunties of Vasant Kunj truly captivating is Anuradha Marwah’s keen psychological insight into her characters. Nilima Gandhi—better known in the colony as Mrs Gandhi—at first seems to embody the familiar figure of the meddling, over-involved neighbour.
Yet as the narrative unfolds, Marwah peels back the layers of Nilima’s personality to reveal a woman worn down by the monotony of domestic life and starved of emotional connection. Behind Nilima’s prying questions and constant chatter lies a deep loneliness, shaped by an indifferent husband, Sunil, and a yearning for recognition that she tries to satisfy through ornate meals and the occasional indulgence in jewellery.
One of the most poignant moments in the novel comes on Nilima’s wedding anniversary. She labours over an elaborate dinner—“mutton-mince koftas, peas pulao, kheer”—pouring her hopes into each dish. But when Sunil cancels their plans without a second thought, Nilima is left crushed.
The image of her, weary and tearful, carrying a bowl of kheer up three flights of stairs to Dini’s flat, is unforgettable. In a rare moment of vulnerability, she rests her head on Dini’s shoulder and sobs openly: “Mrs Gandhi plonked her head on Dini’s shoulder and wept noisily.” It’s in these tender, unguarded moments that Marwah’s characters come alive, their hidden sorrows shining through the cracks of their everyday lives.
Dinitia, or Dini as she’s fondly called, offers a striking counterpoint to both Shailaja and Nilima. A single mother and a passionate advocate for women’s rights, Dini straddles two worlds: the insular, watchful lanes of the Vasant Kunj colony and the dynamic, intellectually charged spaces of feminist NGOs and activist gatherings. Through Dini’s tireless work—pushing for the enforcement of the Protection of Women from Domestic Violence Act, campaigning against marital rape, and empowering women through collectives—Marwah broadens the novel’s lens. The narrative moves beyond the narrow lanes of the colony to engage thoughtfully with broader feminist concerns in contemporary India. Yet Dini’s own life is not free of complexity and contradiction. Despite her firm commitment to independence and equality, she grapples with unexpected vulnerabilities—most notably her attraction to a fellow activist, whose “smouldering black eyes” leave her distracted. Even as she asserts her autonomy, she is unsettled by her feelings, finding herself “acutely conscious of RS all afternoon.”
What makes Marwah’s writing so compelling is her masterful blend of satire and compassion. She pokes fun at the petty rituals and rigid codes that define life in Vasant Kunj—where residents obsessively track water pump schedules, discarded potted plants, and each other’s comings and goings—but she also highlights how these very structures create a sense of shared identity and comfort. As Shailaja muses, “Would Vasant Kunj become a dear perpetual place for her? She would have to send her roots right down three floors, next to Mrs Gandhi’s ground-floor flat.” The so-called aunties, with their endless questions and unsolicited advice, are revealed not merely as busybodies but as guardians of a delicate social fabric, where every individual’s choices ripple through the collective life of the community.
One of the novel’s most delightful aspects is its dialogue. Marwah writes conversations that are at once natural, funny, and revealing. Consider this exchange between Shailaja and Mrs Gandhi on childbearing:
“You know, there is another way of looking at it. All women don’t want children,” Shailaja says.
“Ultra-modern women, must be! But ninety-nine out of hundred—” Mrs Gandhi retorts.
Or the scene where Rajni ki Ma, the domestic worker, comments on Shailaja’s failure to switch on the water pump at dawn: “As if you own a well,” she says dryly when Shailaja complains of an empty tank.
Marwah’s strength lies in her ability to lay bare the intricate ways class, gender, and age shape the rhythms of everyday existence. Through characters like Rajni ki Ma—known to all only in relation to her daughter—the novel underscores how working-class women often lose their identities, reduced to roles that serve others.
The interactions between the colony’s middle-class households and their domestic workers quietly expose the unspoken hierarchies and tangled dependencies that underpin daily life, revealing both tension and uneasy solidarity.
The novel unfolds in a series of vignettes, shifting seamlessly between the lives of its three central women while occasionally illuminating the inner thoughts of peripheral figures. This multi-voiced structure deepens the narrative, allowing readers to see the community from many vantage points and lending the story a rich, layered texture.
Marwah’s writing is graceful and fluid, marked by a remarkable ability to fuse the ordinary with the poignant. In her hands, commonplace objects—a battered fridge, a child’s tricycle, a humble bowl of kheer—take on unexpected resonance, becoming emblems of hope, sorrow, and human connection.
Marwah renders the sights and rhythms of Delhi with remarkable precision and sensitivity. Whether it’s the “parched Vasant Kunj neighbourhood,” where the utilitarian DDA flats—with their sloping floors and mismatched tiles—look as if they were “drawn by a child,” or the polished halls of the India Habitat Centre where Dini delivers a talk on domestic violence, the city’s settings echo the complexities and contradictions of the people who inhabit them. Each space becomes a reflection of the struggles, aspirations, and ironies that define urban life.
What truly sets the novel apart is its refusal to pass judgment. Aunties of Vasant Kunj holds up a mirror to society, allowing readers to see both its comical quirks and its quiet cruelties without resorting to moralizing. Marwah encourages us to chuckle at the absurdities of middle-class existence while also prompting deeper contemplation about its hidden burdens. In one of Shailaja’s moments of painful self-awareness, Marwah writes: “It was too late for her to transform into a bird and fly away; she was no longer hollow-boned and light.” It is this gentle, unsparing honesty that makes the novel both engaging and deeply moving.
Conclusion:
Marwah’s style is distinguished by its understated irony, lyrical flourishes, and remarkable psychological insight. The narrative unfolds at a measured pace, inviting readers to linger over the small, often overlooked details of daily existence. While those seeking a tightly woven plot may find the absence of a traditional storyline disorienting, the novel’s episodic structure feels entirely appropriate. It reflects the gradual, almost imperceptible shifts that define women’s lives within the domestic sphere—transformations that are subtle but profound.
Aunties of Vasant Kunj is a quietly compelling work that balances humour with heartbreak. With its memorable characters and sharp yet compassionate observations, it offers a nuanced exploration of how middle-class women in modern India navigate questions of identity, longing, and belonging. Marwah’s writing is both intelligent and tender, crafting a narrative that entertains while prompting reflection on the complex realities of communal and personal life.
Rating: 4.3/5