My mother’s eldest sister

The firstborn in a family of ten, her place in the family annals was assured. I knew of Aunt Roz long before I met her, and I certainly felt her presence: a prized red sweater knitted with love, warm and embracing, which saw me through a few north Indian winters; a knitted doll with distinctly Jamaican features, dress and accessories, and gifts sent from time to time for a little girl she had never seen. A black and white photograph, my first memory of her, revealed a luminous beauty.

My mother was the last but one of the ten and, I think, a little in awe of big sister. Tomboyish, strong willed, fun loving, determined and also very talented, according to my mother, Aunt Roz met life head on.

I finally caught up with her when I was around eleven years old and legend did her justice. I loved my aunt on sight – she was the ideal foil to a shy, uncertain, self-effacing child. I remember laughing eyes and an infectious, sometimes ribald, sense of humour (something my mother did not appreciate which made it the more delightful!), a never say die attitude and a very accommodating temper. Her children, my cousins, were grown and gone, she had retired from teaching and, so, I was favoured with her full attention.

The setting was the railway colony in Jhansi and the timeframe was a couple of months which also included Christmas. I learned how to make Rum Punch and Christmas cake. I also learned to distinguish salt from ground sugar! Aunt Roz decided that eleven was a good age to be introduced to the working kitchen and ‘Banana Fritters’ just the right recipe. The ingredients were freshly bought and tied up in paper bags, waiting to be emptied into jar and bowl. I duly opened a packet and, without checking the contents, emptied it into the bowl which already had the mashed banana and flour (that was the time before mixers and food processors). Luckily, the mistake was discovered before mixing commenced and we ended up enjoying the ‘slightly salty’ result. This was the first time an adult did not go ballistic when I made a mistake and I loved her for it.

Attending Sunday Mass entailed a long walk and the crossing of a stream, accompanied by a question and answer session, mostly Sunday School stuff. Mass was followed by the recitation of three rosaries – five decades each, back to back. I would keep checking to see if she had finished and find that she was right at the beginning once more! When she was done, we still could not leave because one could not walk out while a Mass was in progress. Yes, we heard three Masses on Sundays. Perhaps that grace still follows me. If so, I have Aunt Roz to thank.

When she visited us in Bombay, she would take me to the movies and the tunes of ‘My Fair Lady’ are inextricably linked with memories of Audrey Hepburn, Rex Harrison and Aunt Roz. When I was with her, I could be myself without censure. I think she was slightly puzzled by a child that was so in contrast to her own two very outgoing and independent progeny, and so decided to give me free rein. Whatever the reason, she always seemed eager for my company as I was for hers.

Very strong on family ties, she made it a point to stay in touch even when she migrated to another continent. Her distinctive handwriting embellished Christmas cards, birthday cards and the in-between aerogramme with family news and a message for - or enquiry after - me. There was never a gap in the correspondence, even if we did not reply. Of all my mother’s sisters, she was the one I knew best.

From all accounts, her zest for living never faltered and her last missive to me told of knitting needles occupied by a pair of socks and the desire to try her hand at Hungarian Goulash!

They say that when those you love pass on, they become a memory and, in time, that memory becomes a treasure. Aunt Roz, you are surely a memory I will always treasure.