I watched as she came pedalling slowly, her bicycle wobbling just slightly under the weight of a life well lived and a metal box filled with memories.
Every evening, just as the light softened and shadows began to stretch across the tar-paved road, the air still warm and thick like breath held too long, she arrived.
Not many knew her first name. Maybe she didn’t remember it herself—it had been that long since anyone called her anything but “Aunty.” She rode an old black bicycle, its handle wrapped with faded red ribbon, the seat cushioned with rags. Behind her, strapped tight with rope, was a large metal box—dented, scratched, but always clean. Inside, treasures lay nestled: layer upon layer of delicate, fragrant kuih.
Ten sen each.
Children called her the Kuih Aunty, but to the aunties at the mahjong table, she was also the “Game Stopper”—not because she interrupted the fun, but because her presence meant the game had to pause. Tiles clacked and whispers hushed when someone shouted, “Eh! Kuih Aunty is here!”
Her slippers slapped gently against the tarred road as she walked her bicycle through puddles and dust, her shoulders stooped from years of habit, not age.
She lived at the very end of the village, in a wooden kampung house raised on stilts, with stairs that creaked under her feet every morning. The house was old but steady, tucked among tall grasses and coconut palms that whispered with the wind.
Inside her silver box, the colours and smells of childhood waited:
Kuih lapis, with soft rainbow layers that peeled apart like secret notes passed in school.
Ang ku kuih, red turtle-shaped cakes with sticky peanut filling, moulded with care and just the right chew.
Pulut tai tai, glutinous rice dyed with butterfly pea flower blue, served with kaya slow-cooked over charcoal until it gleamed like gold.
Chai tow kuih on special days—radish cake fried until crisp, egg scrambled into its corners, smoky and fragrant.
Ching tui, deep-fried sesame balls with a crispy golden crust and sweet black bean filling that cracked softly with every bite.
And her secret-everyone’s favourite—cucur udang.
Golden, crisp-edged fritters dotted with crunchy bits of shrimp and chopped spring onions. Still warm, nestled in brown paper. But it was her cili sos—thick, spicy, slightly sweet, with a touch of garlic and vinegar—that made people pause mid-bite and smile. The kind of sauce that made you close your eyes and say, “Wah, sedaplah Aunty!”
Some claimed she added a pinch of dried shrimp into the sauce. Others said bird’s eye chili. But she never confirmed. Only gave that same small smile, her lips barely parting, as if the secret was just one of many she carried beneath her leaf-woven hat.
She said little, but always smiled—her joy folded into the creases of her apron and the way she carefully counted change, never once making a mistake.
One rainy evening, I called out, “Hujanlah, Aunty.”
She just nodded and tapped the hat on her head. “Mau makan jugak, mah—hujan pun hujan lah?”
When the monsoon came and the tarred roads shimmered like black glass, she came—her silhouette bent but steady, cutting through the rain like memory through time.
When the haze hung low over the hills and even the birds forgot their songs, she came—unshaken, a small figure moving through silence.
Her bicycle tires splashed through muddy drains, each turn of the wheel a quiet promise. And the bell on her handlebars gave a shy ting, not like a call for attention, but like a prayer—soft, sacred, and never asking for anything in return —not for sale, but for sharing.
No one knew much about her, except that her son was my classmate—rather quiet, but sometimes as mischievous as any of us. Aunty Lee spoke neither of the present nor the past. She spoke through kuih—sweet, salty, sticky, warm—wrapped in brown paper and passed from one hand to another.
One day, I asked her, “Aunty, why you never miss a day-ah?”
She looked up, eyes crinkling beneath her hat. “Because I never know who’s waiting.”
That evening, she sold out early. The bell gave one last gentle ting, and she mounted her bicycle.
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