Chitti is a Tamil word for mother’s younger sister. But no, Chittis aren’t just garden-variety aunties. Chittis of my childhood, spent in Southern India in 1970s and 80s, were magical beings.

In her teens, a Chitti was deployed to care for snot-nosed, colicky babies, terrible toddlers and pre-teens while their mom, visiting her parents for a much needed break from serving her husband and in-laws, spent her time in the kitchen gossiping and chopping veggies.

Chitti bathed and dressed the hellbeasts. She combed and braided hair after carefully checking for lice — which prepared her for a life-time of nitpicking.

She was in charge of feeding fussy little blighters. No ridiculous plates, spoons or forks — she’d scoop out just the perfect dollops of mashed up rice and yogurt from a large bowl and into tiny outstretched palms and wide-open mouths.

Away from their disciplinarian dads and haranguing moms, these young wards were usually on their worst behavior. Chitti coaxed and cajoled, played hide-and-seek and hopscotch, told amazing stories from the great myths about goddesses and ogres, gave fabulous massages with fragrant oils and sang lullabies. She got the job done without ever threatening to use a cane or rat on them to their parents. Silicon Valley product managers who whine about accountability without authority could do with some Chitti training.

A Chitti could pick jasmine flowers with one hand while applying Odomos mosquito repellent with the other. Any given summer, a typical Chitti saved kids from rabid dog bites, drowning in the backyard well, or getting run over by a bus.

Eventually Chitti married and had her own brood. But her love for the rugrats she nurtured only grew.

The word for Chitti in Hindi and many North Indian languages is Maasi — which translates to “like mom”. And for an entire generation of Indian Americans like me, with a mere mention of that glorious word “Chitti” on the national stage at such an important moment, Kamala made us feel like we belong and that she was one of us.