Julie & Kishore (15 page)

As
the taxi stopped at the next set of traffic lights a disheveled
, wild-eyed
woman
holding a baby in her arms
approached our car. She was dressed in a
stained purple sari and her hair
was
pulled back in a
tousled bun. Her baby was wearing no clothes except for a cloth nappy, his eyes
were open, they were big, innocent and as black as night.

The
beggar headed straight towards my window, without hesitation Kishore told me to
ignore her.
 

“Madam,”
she called through the closed window, “Madam.”
     
I couldn’t help
myself, I turned towards her and her baby and my heart lurched. I felt so sorry
for them but
I
did as Kishore requested and quickly looked away. It
was too late, the beggar knew she had my attention and hopefully my sympathy.
Her fingernails scratched the window, “Madam,” she called again, “You have a
good life, look at me, I am poor, I have nothing,
my
baby is hungry.” Kishore again told me to ignore her, it is a business he said
they are paid to beg. If we give in, the cycle will continue and they will
continue to beg. They steal babies to use as bait and are taught just the right
words
to use
in English to get your sympathy.

The
beggar distracted me from Kishore, “Please madam, just a few coins, just a few,
if you don’t give me anything I will come into your dreams at night. You will
remember me in your nightmares.”

Thankfully
the lights went from red to green with Kishore urging the taxi driver, “Jaldi,
jaldi,” (quickly, quickly). As we stopped at the next lights begging children
not older than ten did a little dance. Then a man approached the car selling
colourful
,
twirling windmills, Kishore said this wasn’t
so
bad as this was his genuine business. I began to
understand just how much begging could be a profession.

As
our trip progressed, I noticed shelters set up along the barriers between the
lanes of traffic on the road. Large pieces of cloth had been
hung
as make-shift tents and people’s belongings were
scattered around the area. At one set of lights a family were gathered around a
fire in front of their tent.
 
These
homeless people had set up their camps next to the traffic lights so they were
up and ready to beg as soon as
the
lights flicked
to red.

Kishore
explained to me India had no social welfare system what-so-ever. There was no
help for the unemployed, elderly, homeless, widows, widowers or single Mothers
- yes out of wedlock pregnancies did occasionally happen. People in need were
totally dependent on other family members to help them and if there were no
family members they resor
t
ed to begging.

As
the taxi ambled towards our destination, I again pondered my situation. Had I
really left my veterinary nursing career solely to meet Kishore? Was this my
destiny? Seeing first-hand the population explosion here in Delhi, I wondered
just how Kishore and I had found each other. Millions and millions of people
live in India. How did this man sitting next to me find me on the other side of
the world?

This
trip was not just a trip to meet Kishore’s family, I wanted to see for myself
if marrying him, an Indian man, was really what I wanted. It was a test of my
commitment to him.
Wearily,
I leant my head
against the back of
the seat and closed my eyes. I
needed a few moments to think about the thoughts swirling like a whirlpool
around in my head. The time ahead was going to be
immensely
busy.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE

The
Hindi word for holiday is chhutti.

My
thoughts were brought rushing back to the present as Kishore exclaimed, “Look
Julie," he pointed out of the window, “There is my old school,
we
are not far from my home now.” The car whizzed past a
nondescript building. My heart beat faster, reality had hit me, I was about to
meet Kishore’s parents. I was extremely nervous, my palms were all sweaty but
there was a little thrill of excitement coursing through my veins.

The
taxi began to slow suddenly as there were many people gathered in his street.
Neighbours and family members heard Kishore was coming home with his English
bride-to-be. It was a big event. How did they know the taxi would be arriving
right at this moment? Or, had these people been waiting here all day? I thought
with a chuckle
that
this was what it
must be like to be a celebrity surrounded by paparazzi – minus the flashing of
cameras in my eyes. If I wasn’t feeling so apprehensive I would have jokingly
pulled a pen from my handbag ready to sign autographs.

 
Indian communities are all very close-knit -
neighbours have their ways and means of finding out all the gossip and what is
going on in people’s lives, news travels really fast. If there was an event
such as an engagement, marriage, birth or death there was no need to use the
telephone, just tell one person, they will tell someone else, who will tell
someone else and so on until the entire neighbourhood is informed.

The
car slowly ground to a halt like a marathon runner after a long race. On my
left I saw a set of concrete flats and to my right was a garden reserve.

A
swarm of people surrounded the car. Kishore managed to open the door and climb
out, he eagerly pushed
his way
through the
crowd towards a middle-aged woman. He hugged her
then the man
standing next to her. From the photos I had seen, I knew of course these two
people were Kishore’s Mum and Dad. Roopa wore a pretty, petunia
pink
sari and her hair was fastened in a tight bun. Chandra wore a navy blue suit, I
could see the family resemblance,
Kishore’s
Father was
an older version of himself.

I
kind of stupidly sat in the car, wondering whether I should try to get out or
wait for him.

As
Kishore took hold of his
parents
hand
s
and pulled them toward
s
the taxi
,
his smile was huge, spread across his face like the
swipe of a paintbrush.

I
had by now decided to emerge by myself. I got out of the car and was just about
to shut the door behind me when Kishore and his parents arrived.

“This
is Julie,” he proudly announced
with a
sweep of his
hand towards me. With palms together Kishore’s Mother and Father stood before
me and simultaneously said, “Namaste beti” (daughter).
  

I
copied their gesture and replied, “Namaste Daddyji, Namaste Mummyji.” I then
embraced his parents. I had been told never to call Kishore’s parents by their
first names. This was unacceptable in Indian culture and anyway I wouldn’t feel
comfortable doing it. In fact I would have felt better calling them Mr and Mrs
Patel but Kishore had gently coaxed me to call them Mummyji and Daddyji (the ji
is added when addressing people especially elders as a sign of respect).

Polite
salutations and introductions were made with Kishore’s younger brother and
sisters and soon everyone in his family were hugging us while chattering and
laughing all at the same time. The eyes of the crowd were upon us especially
me. Finally
,
after Kishore and his brother had retrieved the
suitcases from the boot of the taxi we all attempted to make our way into the
family home. As we pushed our way through the crowd, Kishore and I said many
hellos to people I had never met before. Eventually we arrived at the lower
floor of the block of flats, his parents led the way up the stairs. My new
‘sisters’ Ranjini and Saras each took hold of one of my hands and we followed behind.
Kishore and Sunil carried the suitcases and brought up the rear.

The
pictures I had seen of the family were dull in comparison to seeing them in
person, I was fascinated. Ranjini and Saras who had been younger in the photos
were now seventeen and nineteen years old and were growing into gorgeous young
ladies. They both wore modern clothes, casual but respectable, jeans and
t-shirts and had caramel skin like Kishore's. As New Delhi in the north of
India the skin colour is lighter than in the south. Ranjini’s black, shiny hair
was hanging loose while Saras had hers tied
up
in
a high pony tail.

Upon
reaching the top of the stairs we all turned right and entered the family home.
The stairs had no lighting and my eyes took a moment to adjust. The walls were
concrete and the house smelled garlicky although my first impression was that
it appeared so small for six
people
- five without Kishore
. In front of me was the main
sitting area. To my right was the kitchen with an array of bowls, pots and
utensils covering the bench and beyond the kitchen I could see the glimmer of a
bathroom. To the left in the corner of the sitting room was a closed door. I
knew this was the one and only bedroom Kishore had told me about.

Ranjini
and Saras led me into the clean and tidy sitting room itself and offered me a
seat on the couch. As I sat it felt to be made of vinyl but I could not really
tell as most of the furniture was draped in cotton lilac throws. Looking around
I noticed prints on the walls of various Indian gods. Only one picture was
different to the others and that was of a pretty mountainous landscape. As I
scanned the room my eyes fell to the floor, the majority of the sitting area
was covered in a large mat of tones of light and dark blue. I knew this type of
mat was made of cotton and called a durrie. Kishore and Sunil emerged from the
stairwell, they dropped the suitcases and Kishore joined me on the couch.

The
girls appeared from the kitchen carrying three plates of snacks that I would
soon become familiar with. Saras placed on the coffee table a plate laden with
jalebis, ladoos and burfis. Ranjini followed suit, one of her plates held two
small bowls, both containing salty snacks, one being bhuja and the other matri.
Her other plate held pinnis, which I later learnt was Kishore’s Mother’s
homemade special
i
ty sweet, treat.

Offering
of food was not be refused in India, in fact, it was considered an insult if
you did. Over the next few days, Kishore and I were to visit many friends and
relatives. I soon learnt to take only small amounts of their delicious
offerings and eat slowly, in this way I would not offend anyone or feel full.
Ranjini emerged again from the kitchen, this time she placed a cup of tea in my
hand. As I glanced at her
,
she smiled
‘please drink’ she offered encouragingly.

English
was taught at school as part of the curriculum so I knew speaking to the family
was not going to be a problem. Kishore’s Mother was the only person who had a
limited understanding of the English language, coming from a generation when
girls were only taught the basics at school, enough so they could just read and
write in their own language. A time when it was understood that girls would
only ever become housewives and Mothers, thankfully these times and attitudes
have changed.

Taking
a sip of the tea, I found the taste rich, milky, sweet and a little bit spicy.
As I drank I tried to take in all that was going on around me. The house felt
welcoming, simple and comfortable.

Once
everyone was seated and settled with a cup of tea in their hand, it was time to
hear all of the latest news. The questions came in quick succession, with
everyone speaking in a mix of English and Hindi. Kishore translated any Hindi
words I didn’t understand to keep me in the loop. How were Aunty and Uncle
doing? His Father asked. How was Kishore’s work? Some of the questions were
directed at me. How was I feeling? Was I tired? How was the plane journey? What
did I think of India so far?
 
Feeling a
bit overwhelmed I only managed to reply to the questions with yes or no
answers.

Kishore
produced two photograph albums from his travel bag to show his family that the
relatives in New Zealand were fine. There were also photos of my family,
Kishore’s work colleagues and scenic pictures of Auckland with the stunning
beaches and parks we had visited.

Kishore
then opened his suitcase to give his family the gifts he had brought with him;
soap, toothpaste, toothbrushes, teabags, jam, packets of biscuits and cartons
of long life milk. Of course these things were available in India but they were
not the same, they had a different smell and packaging and coming from overseas
made them more exciting. He watched proudly as his family exclaimed over the
items. He had always dreamt of being the person bearing gifts, just as his Aunt
and Uncle had done when he was a child.

After
a long and exhausting day I retired for the night with Mummyji, Ranjini and
Saras in one of the four bed cots that were set up in the sitting room. Before
sleeping us girls chatted, I felt at ease with them and found this a nice way
to get to know them better, in fact,
these
girly talks
were to become a nightly ritual the whole time I was in India. Ranjini and
Saras were young women, reaching an age when they were thinking of getting
married themselves. It was an unwritten rule that each sibling can only get
married consecutively from oldest to youngest. We discussed this as they were
keen to start their marriage preparations after Kishore then Sunil were
married. Ranjini and Saras giggled shyly as they asked their many questions
about Kishore being first my boyfriend and now my fiancé. Did we go out alone?
Did we hold hands? What did my parents think of our relationship?

Saras
then asked me if she could touch my freckles. I smiled and nodded. Each sister
in turn softly touched my face in wonder. Of course they had seen freckles
before, just not so many. They asked me about life in New Zealand, they knew
what Kishore had told them but they wanted to know from a female perspective.
Could I wear short skirts? Make-up? Could anybody have a boyfriend? India was
changing but New Zealand was more advanced with women modern in their ways. It
was common for young women in New Zealand to study in order to become doctors,
lawyers, judges, psychiatrists, anesthetists or dentists. I encouraged Ranjini
and Saras to be courageous and to study hard, that girls could do anything they
wanted, to reach for the stars. Most important of all was to be respected as
females and know their rights.

As
I was the youngest, the baby of my family I had always been referred to as the
‘little sister.’ No one came to me for advice and nobody looked up to me. Here,
I was the oldest girl and my two ‘sisters’ were asking me for advice. It felt
good to be treated this way, I felt important. I was now almost twenty-one, the
same age as Sunil but regardless of my age, I was engaged to the oldest son of
the family and automatically gained respect as the eldest sister-in-law.

Kishore,
Sunil and their Father slept in the one bedroom of the house that was used as a
study during the day. As with the girls small cots were set up at night for
sleeping which were stowed away in the day
time
,
no one had a bedroom to call their own.

As
I drifted off to sleep, I remembered a comforting sound from my childhood, the
whoosh-whoosh, hiss-hiss,
noise
of Mum's iron as it
swished across the ironing board. She would stay up late into the night to
finish pressing the clothes she had been given from neighbours, to earn a
little extra income. It was a reassuring memory and the thought of it soothed
me.

My
family was not wealthy but we were lucky and were secure. Dad worked hard and
Mum was a full time Mother as was Kishore’s Mother.

My
family owned a car, T.V, washing machine, fridge and had plenty of hot water
straight from the tap. When we were little I had shared a room with Sarah but I
now had that room to myself. It contained all of my treasures, my bed with its
rosy pink coverlet, a small bookshelf stacked tidily with my favourite
childhood books: the Narnia collection, Little House on the Prairie and the
Famous Five Mysteries.