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The Visitor in the Mirror

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By: Nievana Judisthir


 

Sheila stared at her reflection in the dim light of her bedroom. Her tired eyes traced the bruises along her collarbone and the purple shade on her cheek, fading but unmistaken. The moonlight filtering through the curtains cast shadows over the small apartment she shared with Shawn, her partner of three years. 

It was quiet, eerie, except for the occasional drip of water from the kitchen sink and the distant hum of Toronto traffic outside.

She wiped her tears with the back of her hand, cursing under her breath in Creole. "Why me?" she whispered. "Why I cyan just leave?"

Sheila was trapped—her heart bound by Shawn’s promises of change and brief moments of affection, quickly overshadowed by his rage. The truth had become clear: the man she once loved had become a monster. But love, like the thread of Fate woven into the very core of her being, held her tightly to him.

She was an Indo-Guyanese girl born and raised in Canada, in a tight-knit family whose women had made the same sacrifices generations of immigrants did. Her parents would never understand. In her culture, relationships were to be endured, especially by women. 

"No man is perfect, Sheila," her mother had said the last time they spoke. "You just have to be strong." 

Strong. But what did strength look like? Was it hiding the marks on her skin with makeup? Was it something more?

Her thoughts drifted to her great-grandmother, Big Ajie. She had only heard stories, whispered between her mother and aunts during family gatherings, as they drank cups of steaming tea and gossiped. 

Big Ajie, whose real name was Devika, was a young bride. Her husband was a sugarcane worker, and, like many women of that time, she suffered in silence. The stories painted her as a shadow, moving through life in quiet submission, until one night, she disappeared. They said she had walked into the Demerara River and never came back.

But Sheila had never known her, she had only seen pictures. But she knew the weight of her absence in the family. Her great-grandmother’s legacy was silence, buried beneath years of tradition and cultural expectations.

A cold breeze brushed past Sheila’s neck, pulling her from her thoughts. She glanced toward the window. It was closed. Her heart began to race.

"Who’s there?" she asked, her voice shaking.

No answer.

A sudden chill ran through her, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. The small mirror on her dresser caught her attention. Something was wrong. Her reflection was blurry, and in the haze, she saw something—or someone—standing behind her.

Sheila gasped and turned around, but there was no one there.

She looked back at the mirror, heart pounding. This time, the figure was clearer. A woman, dressed in a faded sari, her long black hair cascading over her shoulders. Her eyes were dark, hollow, and filled with sorrow.

Realization dawned on her. "Ajie?" Sheila whispered, her voice trembling.

The woman in the mirror did not respond, but the sadness in her eyes seemed to pull Sheila closer. It was as if she was trying to speak, trying to warn her of something. Sheila’s breath quickened. Her great-grandmother had been dead for decades, yet here she was, standing in the reflection, watching her.

"Why… why are you here?" Sheila asked, her voice breaking.

Big Ajie’s eyes softened, and for a moment, the silence of the room lifted. Sheila felt a strange sense of comfort, but also an overwhelming sadness. It was as though the weight of generations of women—her great-grandmother, her grandmother, her aunts, and now herself—pressed down on her shoulders.

"Sheila…"

The voice echoed in her mind, faint but clear. It wasn’t a sound, but a feeling, an impression left behind in the air.

"You have to leave," Big Ajie seemed to say, though her lips never moved. "He will kill yuh, like yuh Aja kill me."

Sheila’s breath caught in her throat. "Shawn?" she whispered.

Big Ajie nodded slowly. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, and in that moment, Sheila saw it all. The heartbreak, the sorrow, the years of abuse and fear that had marked her great-grandmother’s life. And then, in a flash through the mirror, she saw Big Ajie walking toward the river, the night sky reflecting in the still waters. She saw the heavy steps, the pain in her heart, and the weight of hopelessness that had driven her to take her own life.

"No!" Sheila cried out, reaching toward the mirror. "Don’t leave!"

But Big Ajie’s figure faded, dissolving into the shadows as Sheila’s own reflection reappeared in the mirror. She was alone again, the room dark and cold. Tears streamed down her face as she sank to the floor, her chest heaving with sobs.

She stayed there for what felt like hours, hugging her knees to her chest, the memories of her great-grandmother’s life and death swirling around her like a storm. 

She remembered the stories her family had told, how they always ended with a warning. "We don’t talk about Big Ajie," her mother would say, shaking her head. "Some things are too painful."

But now, Sheila understood. Big Ajie hadn’t been a failure or a ghost to be forgotten. She was a woman who had been broken, just as Sheila was now. And like her, Big Ajie had been trapped, caught in the web of duty and fear, until it had consumed her.

Sheila wiped her eyes, the weight of her great-grandmother’s warning settling over her like a heavy cloak. She stood up, her legs shaky but determined, and walked to the window. She opened it, letting the cool night air wash over her face. The city lights flickered below, and for the first time in a long while, she felt something stirring within her—a spark of strength.

Big Ajie had come to warn her, to show her that she didn’t have to follow the same path. Sheila didn’t have to end up like her great-grandmother, lost to despair and heartbreak.

As she stood there, she made a decision. She would leave. 

The next morning, Sheila waited until Shawn left for work before packing her things. She didn’t have much—just a few clothes, a photo of her family, and her Big Ajie’s old gold bangles that she always kept hidden in a drawer. She put the bangles on.

Before she left, she walked over to the mirror one last time. The room was quiet, but the air felt lighter, as though the weight of the past had lifted. Sheila glanced at her reflection, half-expecting to see Big Ajie standing behind her again, but the mirror was empty.

Still, she felt her great-grandmother’s presence, like a whisper in the back of her mind.

You’re stronger than you think.

She smiled faintly and touched the bracelet on her wrist. "Thank you, Ajie," she whispered.

Sheila left the apartment with her head held high, her heart heavy but resolute. She didn’t know what the future held, but she knew one thing for certain: she wouldn’t let Shawn—or anyone—hurt her anymore.

As she walked down the street, the weight of generations lifted from her shoulders. Big Ajie’s sorrow had become her strength, and in that strength, Sheila found the courage to move forward.

She had broken the cycle.

And Big Ajie could finally rest.


 

In Sheila’s Indo-Guyanese culture, family was everything. But family was also a complicated knot of expectations and silences. In her family, women were often asked to bear their burdens quietly, to endure for the sake of their children, for the sake of their family’s pride. Sheila had been taught to respect her elders, to honor their sacrifices, but no one had ever told her that sometimes, strength meant walking away. 

That night, Sheila lit a diya, a small clay lamp, for Big Ajie. It was a way of remembering, of honoring her spirit. The tiny flame flickered in the stillness, casting long shadows on the walls of her new apartment. 

Sheila sat on the floor, watching the light. "You’re free now," she whispered. 

And so Sheila.

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Brown Gyal Diary is an international organization creating a space that contributes to the mental wellbeing of Indo-Caribbean young women. Through collective action, we are exploring cultural identity to better understand ourselves. Through creative content, community engagement, and advocacy projects, we are defining what it means to be Indo-Caribbean through our own stories. Indo-Caribbeans reside all over the world; some of which have the ability to belong, and some of us are positioned in parts of the world where we have no access to cultural understanding or unity within our community. Brown Gyal Diary provides both worldwide awareness through our digital footprint and affirmative action through our desire to provide a safe space for Indo-Caribbean women. 

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