Nothing Like Love Read Free

sell her father’s long beans.
    “Here, Pa!” She waved her arms at Om.
    Gloria Ramnath, dressed in a new pink dress, bumped Vimla with her wide hips. “Eh, gyul, move from here. I selling my eddoes at this stall.” She heaved a heavy bag of eddoes off the floor and plopped it onto the stand. “Go and find a next place to play.”
    Vimla stared at Gloria. She wore ten rings on her fat fingers and three chains like gold ropes around her bull-like neck. Her earlobes were stretched by the weight of gaudy earrings that dangled to her shoulders, and on her toes—Vimla flinched at the sight of hair on them—Gloria wore silver rings fashioned like coiling snakes. Her son was a jeweller in Port of Spain, and everyone knew it.
    “Auntie Glory, this is my father’s stall.” Vimla pointed to the scale she’d placed on the splintering wooden stand to secure the spot for Om.
    “Where is Fatty-Om? I ain’t see him anywhere, and nobody can miss Fatty-Om when he walk into a place.” Gloria chuckled and her gold-draped bosom danced up and down. She untied her bag of eddoes and pushed it on its side with a
thump
, rolling the brown hairy vegetables out onto the stand with her pudgy fingers.
    Vimla stepped back and assessed Gloria’s bulk, lingering on the hanging flesh at her forearms and the triple layer of fat at her chin. She screwed her face up at the woman. “That’s
Mr
. Om Narine, to you.” Vimla nodded to her father, whom she could see out of the corner of her eye making his way up the middle aisle. “And he’s right there … Auntie
Boobooloops
,” she muttered.
    Gloria dropped an eddoe and placed her meaty hands on her wide waist, bending forward so that Vimla saw the endless line of her cleavage. “Boobooloops!”
    Om arrived and wedged himself between the stalls. He dropped an armful of bags on the stand around his scale. “Morning, Glory.”
    Gloria glared at Om. “Your daughter just called me ‘Boobooloops.’ ” She pointed a finger at Vimla.
    Om stared at Gloria for a moment and then looked to Vimla for an explanation.
    “Pa, she called you ‘Fatty-Om’!” Vimla folded her arms.
    Om chortled. “That’s my name, Vims. Everybody does call me ‘Fatty-Om.’ ” He massaged his gut and hula-hooped his waist.
    Gloria gloated. Vimla’s face darkened. “Well, I don’t think
she
should call you that, Pa. Look at she! She have no neck! And besides, she try and t’ief this stall from me.” Vimla narrowed her gaze at Gloria.
    Gloria turned to the neighbouring merchant, who was eavesdropping as he prepackaged his hot peppers: two shrivelled peppers and three ripe peppers per bag. “Eh, Bulldog! You hearing this?” Gloria demanded.
    Bulldog shrugged. “Glory, you t’ief the stand from the girl.”
    Another woman behind Vimla spoke up. “You slam down your bag of eddoes on she table like if you own Chance Market when you know Fatty-Om was coming.”
    Gloria puffed herself up even bigger. “Child, you hear that? That auntie call your father ‘Fatty-Om,’ too.” A smirk settled on her thin lips.
    Vimla scowled. “That auntie only have one chin!”
    Some people chuckled, but an older granny stood slowly from her perch and pointed a shaky finger at Vimla. “Mind your elders.” Her voice crackled when she spoke and the words came out slow. “Why you come here? You should be home learning to cook
paratha roti
for your husband.”
    “I ain’t married.”
    Granny smiled, showing the dark gaps of missing teeth. “Because you can’t cook paratha roti.”
    Onlookers laughed again as they arranged their produce on their stalls. Om sighed. “Vimla, tell Auntie Glory you sorry and let we find a next stall fast before this place full up.” He glanced around the giant tent for a spot.
    Vimla’s mouth fell open. “Pa! This is our stall, and she—”
    Om gathered up his bags of long beans and headed for thelast vacant stand he could see, leaving Vimla and Gloria glowering at each other. Vimla