Julie & Kishore (18 page)

CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT

The
Hindi word for moon is
chandra
.

My
Delhite - resident of Delhi (I was getting good at the local lingo) fiancé and
I headed out the next afternoon in an auto (short for auto-rickshaw – more of
the local lingo) to Jan Path, a large popular outdoor open market in the same
vicinity as Connaught Place. As we entered we found it was so packed with
people, it was hard to take one step in front of the other without being pushed
and shoved.

 
My eyes bulged in wonder as I gazed in
disbelief at the scene opening out in front of me. The smells were
overwhelming, a heady vibrant mix of spices. The noise was loud and the sounds
mingled together. Not being able to understand the language being spoken or
shouted and the sound of hundreds of people all talking at the same time is
like one roaring hum. Every now and then I heard
above the din
a
vendor’s sing-song voice calling out to people to come to his stall to buy his
product.

 
I clutched hold of Kishore’s shirt tightly as
I digested the dynamic images in front of me, a multi-coloured pot pourri mix
of market stalls that were open at the front selling anything and everything
anyone could possibly want.

 
Handbags, hand-crafts, scarves, ties, shoes,
cushion covers, wall hangings, toys and bracelets - the list goes on and on.
All types of Indian food was also on sale – ones I knew of plus much, much
more. The aromas were overpowering. The first stall Kishore eagerly headed for
was a vendor selling kulcha (which are a type of roti bread fried in oil) and
cholay (thick and soupy cooked chick peas). The vendor was stirring the
steaming cholay in a big pot, the spicy fragrance wafting up from it was, to
Kishore, like a piece of heaven.
 
A lot
of Indian food is vegetarian and the variety is endless. He had missed these
types of food in New Zealand, the flavours he had known since he was a child, a
pure palate of delight.

Indian
people rarely use utensils and this occasion was no exception. At outside
markets like this one, each food stall will have a bucket or tap nearby to
rinse your hands after eating.

Kishore
bought one serving of kulcha and cholay for me and one himself. Handing me a
banana leaf, which masqueraded as a plate, I saw there were two kulcha with a
helping of cholay on the top. The idea is to break off a piece of kulcha and
use it to kind of dip and scoop up the cholay.

 
In other states of India rice is more popular
than kulcha or any type of roti. Fingers still replace utensils and the rice
acts as a mop to soak up the dahl or vegetables as you eat.

I
kept one eye on Kishore as I took my first taste test wanting to see his
reaction. I tentatively took a small bite, to his delight, I instantly wanted
more, it was just scrumptious. We quickly finished eating and after rinsing our
hands, Kishore caught sight of the next stall selling raw parsnips and rushed
towards it. The vendor cut a slit through the middle of a parsnip and sprinkled
salt and spice
s
-
ground coriander
and ginger
- along it
,
he
then
squeezed along the top
,
the juice from
a lime. Encouraging me to have a bite Kishore held it under my nose, “Smell it
Julie, it is so yummy.” I sniffed and
to
be honest, all I
could smell was old socks, it just wasn’t my type of taste. In comparison, the
happy grin on Kishore’s face as he crunched his way through the parsnip was
contagious – reminding me of a boy who had stolen his Mum’s freshly baked
cookies straight from the oven.

With
a nearly full tummy, we, of course, could not say no to dessert. Kishore bought
Indian ice-cream called kulfi, which is prepared in the usual way ice-cream is
made with cream and sugar but saffron, almonds and pistachios are added, mango
kulfi is also a popular treat. Kishore handed me a paper cup and with a little
wooden spoon, I pla
ced a spoonful of the ice-cream
in
my mouth, the milky taste was absolutely out of this world.

Kishore’s
reassurance soothed me so I didn’t worry about ‘Delhi belly.’ I did drink
boiled water, most of the time but as for food, I trusted his judgement. He
knew what was clean and the best places to buy food from, even if it was from a
stall on the side of the road.

 
Before moving to New Zealand Kishore worked in
a suburb of Delhi called Okhla. His pride and joy at that time was his Bobby
motorbike, a smaller bike than the bigger and more popular Royal Enfield.

 
The hour and a half ride home on winter’s
evenings was long and bitterly cold. The icy wind bit through his warm coat and
crept under the knitted scarf that was wrapped around his mouth under his
helmet. Longing for a hot meal, he occasionally stopped
half-way home in an area called South Extension
at
a vendor’s cart on the side of the road
. He bought a
steaming bowl of goat
’s
hoof stew or
chicken soup and once or twice he had spicy sweet-corn soup.
 
Wrapping his chilly hands around the piping
hot bowl, he sipped the tasty brew while chatting to the other patrons who had
also stopped. As warmth filled his entire body, he eagerly ate one bowl after
another until he felt satisfied. He was then able to climb back aboard his
motorbike and continue the journey home, where he ate his Mother’s dinner as
well. Being young and working hard allowed him to eat as much as he liked and
still maintain his trim figure.

Back
to that day at Jan Path market, it seemed to get busier and busier the longer
Kishore and I stayed. I clung tighter to him and became scared in case I lost
him. The sheer volume of people was just overwhelming. Kishore on the other
hand was in his element and excited to be amongst the dynamism and commotion of
the market, back on familiar ground in his own territory.

He
glimpsed a stall selling scarves on the other side of the market which took his
attention and his eye. It was something he had been meaning to buy for me for
ages.

Since
our first date when I had worn the khaki-green scarf, Kishore had wanted to buy
one for me. He had been looking all over
for a scarf
in that unique colour, which he had never let me forget was his favourite but
in the style of his choosing.
             

He
headed
directly
towards the stall with me still
clutching tightly onto the back of his shirt, as he pushed his way through the
crowd.

 
Somehow
,
I tripped
on the uneven ground, I lost my footing
,
 
fumbled
, let go of his shirt and in his
haste he didn’t notice. He pushed ahead through the horde of people, I called
out
, “Kishore, Kishore!” b
ut of course he never heard me.

 
Before my eyes
he
was swallowed by the mass and disappeared.

 
I tried to move forward but the crowd was too
strong and dense. I stood on my tippy-toes, putting my hand up to my head like
a visor to try to spot him but no, I had lost him, like he
had
never existed in the first place. I had lost my grip
on the only thing I knew not only in Delhi but in India.

Without
Kishore, I didn’t know which way to turn. Frantically, I looked around, then
tried to find a way through the crowd in the direction Kishore had gone but the
mass of people was just too thick. I thought of asking someone to take me to a
stall selling scarves but unfortunately for me there was more than one person
selling them. Besides, he was probably looking for me right now. How could I
ask anybody, anything, anyway – I couldn’t speak Hindi.

 
I had met many of Kishore’s neighbours,
friends and relatives since I had been in India but I didn’t know where they
lived or how to get in touch with them. I didn’t know anybody’s phone number or
even Kishore’s
parents
home number. I didn’t even know
their address. All I could remember was Sundar Garden, nothing else.

 
I sighed loudly and stood on my tippy-toes
again but I couldn’t see, it was just a mass of humanity and flashes of
brightly coloured saris.
To add to my
worsening situation,
I found I was being bumped and pushed and jostled by the crowd as they went
about their business. I was moving farther and farther away from him and terror
began to rise in my body. How would Kishore find me if I wasn’t at the place
where we had lost each other?

 
Minutes ticked by as the crowd pushed me along
with it like we were one unit until I emerged at another side of the market.
Realising how far I had come from where I had lost Kishore, I became terrified.
How would he find me now? I thought of looking for a police officer but again I
realised it was no use, I couldn’t speak Hindi, the reality of my situation set
in. I was lost, completely and utterly lost and totally helpless.

Hot
tears of frustration sprang from my eyes. I didn’t know what to do, I felt
desperate and panic began to take over. As I gazed around me
,
in my muddled state I
began to feel
giddy,
my head was spinning and the faces of the people walking by
strangely
rotate
d
glaringly in front of my eyes. Their images circled my vision - the faces
were
of a kaleidoscope of suspicious looking men with
missing teeth, laughing and taunting me.

Finally
an older Indian woman stared at me, a crying, pale faced, red headed girl
standing
,
near hysterical at the side of the market all on
her own.

 
She was dressed in a mauve sari and her
head was covered in a matching coloured shawl but it
had slipped back and her
silvery
grey
hair was exposed, “Are you okay, what is the
matter?” she asked in English. By this time, I was too upset to speak but made
myself take a few deep breaths. The woman came closer and put her arm around
me. I was sobbing but managed to convey I had lost my fiancé. Thinking I was a
tourist she asked which hotel I was staying at. I almost wailed a mournful
Nooooo!
as
I realised if
authorities were looking for me there was no record of accommodation, no hotel
registry for police to check if I didn’t return. The vulnerability of my
situation sunk in, I had put myself into a position where I had no emergency
backup, no plan B. Heck,
we
hadn’t even discussed a
plan A!

With
my heart thumping in my chest, I thought of the one place that would save me. I
knew I must get to the New Zealand Embassy. I would be safe there and could
phone my parents.
          
I longed to
hear the reassuring sound of Mum’s voice. I’d ask her or Dad to somehow arrange
an emergency passport, get a ticket and fly home. Home – like a warm blanket
being wrapped around me, the only word at that moment that sounded comforting
and secure.

 
Through my tears and frantic alarm I told the
woman, “My fiancé is Indian but I have lost him, please, please help me to a
taxi, I need to get to the New Zealand Embassy.”

“Okay,
okay, what is your name dear,” she asked.

“Julie,
my name is Julie.”

“Try
to calm down Julie, I am Mrs Malik, come with me, I will take you to a taxi.”

 
She took my hand and led me through the crowd.
I didn’t know if what I was doing was right or wrong but I allowed myself to be
escorted by her. We reached the gates of the market where Kishore and I had
happily entered only an hour and a half before. Mrs Malik, still holding my
hand, steered me to the
verge of the
sidewalk. She
put up her hand to wave down a taxi but it went speeding by but the next one
she waved at stopped.