No Auntie Is a Stranger
Why is it that Gujarati Aunties always seem to think they know you? I’m walking toward the mall entrance and there’s this Auntie standing in front of the doors, like she’s waiting for someone. She is holding a plastic department store bag in one hand and a receipt in the other, ready to flash it in case she’s accused of shoplifting–this is the paranoia of the brown immigrant. As I near the entrance, she tracks my path with her eyes, and just as I am about to walk past her, she does this subtle little nod in my direction not unlike that of mafia associates recognizing one another on a street corner. It’s the secret handshake of Aunties.
Even after all these years, I’m concerned that to nod in reply is to mislead them to believe we are indeed connected. Though she is standing at a mall in Houston, one foot is firmly rooted in Ahemdabad or Surat or Billimora and she is tossing me a line to pull me back ashore to the homeland which is not mine. I’m slightly unnerved by this and hasten my steps to break free from the grasp of her persistent stare.
But that’s not the end of it. She takes a half-step toward me, as if we’re going to have a reunion, then reconsiders and steps back. To be polite, I smile in her direction as I walk past her. She turns to watch me step into the mall and I can just see the wheels of her brain spinning as it tries to connect me to a language she speaks, to a dusty village or town not far from where she was born, to the poof of a roti hot off an open flame and slathered with ghee, to a particular way of draping the long end of a saree over the right shoulder (not the left, as the rest of the country does) so the intricate artistry of the fabric fans out, to the people who are her people. She turns her head to watch me enter the department store as though bidding a long farewell to a friend.I myself clocked her as a Gujarati the moment I laid eyes on her. She’s a stranger, but I know her well. I could tell by the Lord Krishna pendant hanging off a gold chain she wears atop her sweater (we Gujjus are big on Krishna), the earrings with diamonds arranged in a flower constellation pattern around a larger central diamond– the navattra pattern earrings passed down from mother-in-laws to daughter-in-laws, the long braid of hair dangling from the back of her head, a small slash of a scar covering the piercing on her left nostril which she abandoned decades ago to blend in in America, her petite frame, the tiny stick-on bindi punctuating her forehead, the stacks of gold bangles resting on each wrist, and the open-toed sandals she’s wearing despite it being rather cold. If you know, you know. And I know, because as a Gujarati myself, I grew up surrounded by women just like her.
An ordinary weekday grocery shopping trip with my mom could quickly become a search and rescue mission, should she spy a vaguely Indian looking person out of the corner of her eye. She’d careen our grocery cart around and gun it in the direction of the suspect, the stranger who was already not a stranger owing to the familiarity of their brown skin and grocery cart piled high with cilantro and the giant Coca Cola bottles which Indians watched the price fluctuations of as one does the stock market, eager to pounce on a good deal.
Once we’d reach the suspect’s aisle, she’d compose herself and nonchalantly park us within a few feet of them. If I were to moan that we’d skipped the cereal aisle, she’d glare at me wide-eyed and whisper “Choop! Be quiet!”. Then, while pretending to read the nutrition label on a bottle of ketchup with keen interest, she’d watch the suspect, gauge when they’d likely turn their head, and time the turning of her own head in their direction accordingly. As their eyes grazed one another’s for an instant, she’d smile and ask if they were Indian (so as not to appear too presumptuous), and, hearing the affirmative, ask if they were Gujarati. If they were, all the better. But in the Houston of the 1970’s one couldn’t be so picky when searching for tribe members; you took what you could get, even if they were blinged up Punjabis or South Indians whose every offering to a potluck consisted of some incarnation of rice. There wasn’t a single Indian restaurant in town, so socializing meant either going to Pizza Hut BYOC—bring your own coupons– or going over to other Desi homes for potlucks.
My mom would invite the grocery shopper over for dinner the next weekend and they’d actually come, not the least bit weary of taking their spouse and children dressed in their best Indian clothes to be trapped in a complete stranger’s house. We could have been members of a cult for all they knew, but they possessed the one bit of intel they needed to feel safe: we came from the same place. These friendships struck-up like hasty drug deals in parks, department stores, and school open houses became stalwart additions to our family tree. Like family, they were not chosen for their individual merits. Like family, some were cheap or boring or arrogant. And yet, like family, there was an understanding that we were bound to one another through some ancient root buried across the oceans. When my dad broke his leg, the Uncles took turns mowing our lawn. When my mom suffered a miscarriage, Neena Auntie stayed with us for a week to cook meals and run her hands down my mom’s back to soothe her when she’d spontaneously burst into tears.
I smile as I make my way through the Infants and Toddlers department, I’m shopping for Neena Auntie’s seventh grandchild’s baby shower. I’m not sure how much to spend on a present. Her kids and I haven’t stayed in touch, but the memory of how she came to my mom’s bedside suggests I spend more than I’d intended to.
I’d walked past her in a restaurant recently, not recognizing her, it had been years since I’d seen her. She accosted me with a vigorous hug, and as she threatened to crack my back with the force of her affection, she asked, “You don’t remember me beta? I’m Neena Auntie!”. I was so discombobulated I stared blankly at her for a moment and then something clicked in my mind.
I quickly back paddled and said of course I recognized her, and proceeded to ask about Uncle and the family, which is how I wound up being invited to the baby shower. Ordinarily I would have made some excuse, but I felt so bad about not recognizing her that I enthusiastically accepted the invitation.
I was much better about these sorts of situations when I was younger. Upon making eye contact with a vaguely familiar looking Auntie, I’d beam as though I recognized them, though I didn’t recall their name, and exclaim, “Hi Auntie! How are you?! You look so nice!”, which would kickstart a ten-minute conversation about her children and which colleges they were attending and their marital prospects, culminating with an invitation to “come over some time when you’re not busy, I’ll make some little snacks, nothing fancy.” If Aunties were in charge of NASA, they’d assemble a committee to plan meticulously crafted meals before they’d get down to the less compelling business of figuring out how to get a man on the moon. I’d nod enthusiastically and promise to definitely visit some time. It was inauthentic small talk, neither of us knowing any more about the other when it was over, but both of us feeling better for fulfilling some unspoken contract.
That contract came in handy one night when I was in college. My friends and I would get trashed at this bar on Montrose. We were regulars, always occupying a particular table, laughing and screaming at our inside jokes so obnoxiously that people steered clear of us. One night, an Indian guy walked in alone. I clocked him with the preternatural gift of detecting Indians within fifty feet that I’d inherited from my mom. He sat at the bar drinking whisky for most of the evening, occasionally turning to glance at our table. I could almost feel the burning tip of his cigarette pointing straight at me. At some point, I got up to go to the restroom and when I walked out of the restroom, he was there.
“Hey, you’re Indian, right?” he asked, sending a gust of whisky and tobacco laden breath in my face.
“Yeah! I’m Indian,” I answered brusquely as I walked away. I’d seen enough 1980’s Bollywood movies to know that the more “western” an Indian woman seems, the more likely she is presumed to be a vamp.
He followed me to the table and asked if he could join us. My friends, who all happened to be white, glanced up to see brown me standing next to brown him and, assuming two brown people standing side by side equaled some sort of kinship, cheerily made space. He sat mostly silently with us, his bloodshot eyes stealing glances at our breasts. After half an hour, we made motions to wrap up. The guy, not taking the cue to leave, remained seated until we’d all gotten up at which point he rose and followed us out the door.
“Why’d you let him sit with us?” I snarled at my friend Annie.
“We figured you knew him,” she said under her breath.
“Why? Because our colors match?” I shot back. I trembled with rage as I realized that I would always be, in the eyes of even my friends, first and foremost, brown.
“I’ll take care of it,” she replied as she wheeled around to face the guy who was just two steps behind us.
“Hey, it was really nice to meet you and everything, but we’re fine, you don’t need to walk us to our cars,” she said to the guy. “Oh, I insist,” he said as he attempted to grab hold of my hand. I yanked my hand out of his reach and marched to the quickened drum of my heart’s pounding.
My friends followed me. So did he. There was a convenience store just ahead. “You know, I need some gum. Can we make a quick stop?” I said. We ran through the dark parking lot and swung open the doors of the convenience store. I glanced over my shoulder. He had nearly caught up with us. I ran to the cash register hoping someone big and burly would be there to help us, but there was nobody. The store seemed empty. I heard the doors swing open and within an instant, the guy was standing behind me. I pretended to be a discerning connoisseur of chewing gum, buying time in the hopes someone who could help us would show up. Instead, an auntie popped up from behind the cash register.
“Auntie! Hi! How are you?! So good to see you!,” I exclaimed at the woman I’d never seen before.
“Good, beta, how are you?,” the woman answered graciously. Nice touch, I thought, the beta, the familiar term of endearment. But was she playing along or did she really think she knew me?
“I’m good, you know, busy with college,” I said.
She eyed the guy standing behind me, then looked back at my terror-stricken face. She smiled and then instructed, “Wait one minute beta, I made very good chevda, let me give you some. Your friends will like it too, I followed your mom’s recipe,” she said as she bent down to reach for an up-cycled yogurt container, the official Tupperware of Indian mothers everywhere. My mom never made chevda, there were too many ingredients to buy for the simple Gujarati trail mix that one could buy in ready-made packets at the Desi stores. The auntie placed the yogurt container atop the counter, peeled off the lid, and dug her hand into the container. Just as I thought she was about to offer me a scoop of spicy roasted peanuts, raisins and rice flakes, she scooped out a shiny pistol and pointed it at the guy.
“You, beta, you should go home now. Jaa! Jaa!,” she barked as she walked around the counter towards the guy, arms extended, her gold bangles jangling menacingly. He walked backwards toward the doors, swung them open, and ran into the night. I never learned that auntie’s name, after all, to be called “Auntie” was to be known. She had asked my name, but fearing she may in fact trace some acquaintance to my parents– as aunties are particularly skilled at doing– I told her a fake name. I felt crappy about lying to her and decades later, I still do. As I walk toward the mall exit doors, baby shower gift in hand, I see the auntie still standing there. It has gotten colder in the hour I’ve been inside and the sun is beginning to set. She’s standing stoically, gazing out into the parking lot for some husband or daughter or friend who has yet to pick her up. I walk past her. Then, as if pulled by some unseen vine, I return to her side.
“Hi Auntie!” I say with feigned familiarity. “You’ve been waiting a long time. Can I give you a ride home?”
“Oh, thank you, beta, thank you. Uncle was supposed to be here long time ago, but sometimes he falls asleep you know!,” she sighs as we make our way to my car. The ease with which she accepts my offer strikes me; there is not a hint of trepidation. Then again, I’ve just invited a perfect stranger from the mall into my car. She gives me her address and we allow my GPS guidance to take the place of conversation. I pull up on her driveway and as she unbuckles her seatbelt, she turns to me to say thanks and invites me in. I decline, saying I need to make dinner.
“In that case, let me go get some chevda for you. I just made it fresh this morning. You can take it home. I still make your mom’s recipe.” She returns a minute later with a giant yogurt container, her bangles jangling.
I plead that it’s too much, there is no need. To this, she feigns insult, gruffly barking, “Jaa! Jaa!, go home beta!” as she extends her arm to hand me the chevda.
As I drive down the street, I reach into the yogurt container for some chevda, half expecting a pistol. The container is filled to the top. This is no polite, small token of thanks for a stranger. It’s an overly familiar outpouring for someone she knows, someone she has always known—a Gujarati washed ashore a new land. I toss a handful of the mix into my mouth and savor the taste of home.
Parul Desai Shah is a reformed advertising copy writer. Her works have been nominated for The Pushcart Prize 2025 and The Best of the Net 2026. She is currently a Blackburn Fellow pursuing the Randolph College MFA in Creative Writing.
