by Chandra Persaud

December 2025

When Vimla Aunty was forty-three, she lived only a few blocks away from me. Her house was guarded by two large clay elephants, their trunks raised at each end of a shiny metal gate. It is said that an elephant’s raised trunk is a sign of good luck and fortune, but in the wild, elephants raise their trunks when faced with a threat. I wonder now if Vimla Aunty was sending out a message all along.

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I visited Vimla Aunty nearly once a month for a roti pick-up. “Send Lisa,” she’d call and say.  “I make roti and shrimp curry today for me and Akash. I make too much. You know, it’s just me and him. Send Lisa to pick some up.” Her voice was youthful and gentle, delivering words in a sing-song sway. 

Shortly after, I walked out of our dead-end street filled with potholes and skinny trees. Just about twelve minutes north and the neighborhood changed. Here, houses like Vimla Aunty’s could take up space. 

I relished these visits. Vimla Aunty’s house was tidy and neat and smelled of fresh laundry. Her kitchen was impressive as a row of gleaming, white teeth. When I think of those visits, what I remember even more fondly is a tin of Keebler’s Export Sodas crackers. The green tin lived on her kitchen table, nestled amongst jars of pepper sauce and mango achar and a bottle of crunchy fried channa. 

Vimla Aunty always invited me to sit at the table and insisted I eat. She often opened a can of sweetened condensed milk, poured the contents onto a flower-rimmed plate, and placed it between us. She held the Export Sodas tin at her side and used the manicured red nails of her free hand to pry open the lid. She set the tin down and finally took a seat, gesturing with a hand for me to begin. Together, we broke crackers in two, following the perforated line. As we dipped the pieces into the syrupy milk, she lovingly questioned me about school and teased me about boys, my mouth too full to respond with more than a few words or a giggle.

Other times, Vimla Aunty scooped out the sweetest strawberry jam onto a plate. Export Sodas carried the jam to my lips, the sweetness and crunch an intoxicating mix. I dreaded the times, though, when her hands reached for the cupboard door. Then, I knew she was bringing dollops of peanut butter to the table. The Export Sodas and peanut butter always stuck to the roof of my mouth. It was my least favorite combination. I never had the courage to tell Vimla Aunty. Besides, I was too enthralled by her stories of childhood crushes she and my mother harbored back home at school. 

When the condensed milk or jam or peanut butter disappeared, Vimla Aunty stood and lined a Tupperware container with paper towels. She folded several rotis neatly inside. She placed the container in my hand after pulling me into a tight embrace. She smelled like spring. I regret that I never asked if I could stay a little longer.

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Vimla Aunty’s house was quiet. She had no kids, and I never saw her husband during my visits. In fact, I only saw Akash a handful of times, mostly at pujas held in family members’ backyards. His round, wire-framed glasses sat under his balding head. I never paid him much mind. My eyes were always drawn to Vimla Aunty. Her wrists jingled with bangles that perfectly matched the embroidered sarees wrapped around her waist. She was a vision of beauty in my eleven-year-old eyes. All the elements of the Bollywood heroines I revered, but here in real life! Vimla Aunty appeared shy and girlish at these events, sitting with other aunties long after the pandit left. She laughed often, but spoke little. Her head swiveled constantly, looking for Akash.  

I knew my mother did not like Akash. “I don’t know when Vimla will open she eyes and see,” she kissed her teeth and complained to my grandmother over tea. 

“Vimla could do better. She lives like a queen, but what’s the use? That man is only making a big fool of she. The whole family knows he likes women’s company. One day, he will pay for his dutty ways.” 

My grandmother replied, “Vimla’s mother struggled to find a good match for Vimla. Thank God Akash marry she. Vimla had trouble with she womb since she was young. Who will want Vimla if she leaves Akash? It’s better she stays.” 

To this, my mother had nothing to say. 

I did not fully understand. All I knew was that Vimla Aunty’s smile was warm and inviting, as though the sun lived inside her. 

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If Vimla Aunty was sad, she never showed it. One time at a cousin’s sweet sixteen, Vimla Aunty wore a striking red dress. Her hair was styled in a banana roll with thin, loose curls draping the sides of her painted face. She pulled me to the dance floor. My small hands and feet worked vigorously to keep up with Vimla Aunty. Her hips did not miss a beat! She closed her eyes often, and a mischievous smile played on her lips. Her arms bent, curled, and then ascended to the sky. Each time her eyes reopened, she looked surprised to see me there. She clasped my hands and spun me around and threw her head back in laughter. I smiled so hard my cheeks cried out in sweet pain.

Akash came after the party was well underway. He never joined Vimla Aunty on the dance floor. He stood with other men in a corner by the bar. As soon as the cake was cut and speeches were made, he gripped Vimla Aunty’s elbow and whisked her away. 

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One day, about a year after that party, I visited Vimla Aunty for the usual roti pick-up. I followed her into the kitchen and took a seat at the table. Just as she clapped the last roti several times between her palms, revealing its soft layers, the phone rang. She picked up the blue receiver hanging near the fridge. I eyed the Export Sodas tin, wondering what the pairing would be today, when I heard Vimla Aunty loudly say, “Again, Akash? My god, again? So this is another weekend you have to go away for work, huh?” 

She slammed the phone back in place without saying goodbye. She let out a long sigh. 

The kitchen was quiet except for the pops of a Tupperware lid coming undone and the clang of  Vimla Aunty’s finger rings against the dish as she packed rotis inside. She walked over to the kitchen table without a flower-rimmed plate. She stood by me and pushed the container my way. “Here babe,” she said. “Tell your mom and grandma I say hello.” She sounded tired. The message was clear. It was time to leave. 

I reluctantly started to go. Then, Vimla Aunty’s voice came from behind. “Oh, wait!” 

I turned eagerly, but only to see the signature gold and red wrapper of Tunnock’s caramel wafer biscuit in her outstretched hand. I took it from her and smiled. She wrapped me in an embrace. I heard her heart clapping against her chest and thought of thunder unexpectedly shaking a blue sky.

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Within a few months, Vimla Aunty moved down south to Texas. It was sudden. Akash got a new job. He was sorry she would be so far away from family. When she called to share the news, my legs grew heavy. After dinner, my stomach was restless. The next day, I stayed home from school.  

I saw Vimla Aunty less and less, so much so that I stopped looking for her at family events. 

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On one such occasion, a sixtieth birthday house party for an uncle, I walked into the dining room with a plate of food and found Vimla Aunty at the table. I almost did not recognize her. She appeared smaller. Her sunken cheeks and slim frame sent whispers through the family for weeks following. 

By then, I was eighteen, and Vimla Aunty’s height, which she noted as she threw her arms tightly around me. She gestured to take the empty seat beside her. She lovingly questioned me about school and boys, swore that I must have certainly broken a few hearts by now. I responded with more giggles and laughs than words.

Maybe it was my attempt at small talk, or the realization of just how much I missed her, or maybe it was the question that had been plaguing me since she left, but after a few mouthfuls of silence, I blurted out, “Are you happy you moved?” 

Vimla Aunty cocked her head to one side, her chest lifted with breath. She pursed her lips in a way that made her chin wrinkle. Her eyes zeroed in on her plate as though the answer would be revealed there. I hated myself for asking the question. At last, she looked at me and said, “Well, what can I…”

From the kitchen, an uncle’s voice boomed, “Akash, long time no see, chap!” 

She gently touched my hand. “I’ll be right back, babe,” and with that, Vimla Aunty rose and left the room.