I would never find love, who would or could love me? Make-up couldn’t hide my freckles so I hardly bothered even trying to attempt to wear it, a smear of lipstick was my idea of make-up. As for my hair, don’t get me started on my hair, it was wavy and hard to manage at the best of times.
It was even harder to look at myself in the mirror on rainy, muggy or humid days when my hair was all over the place like a mop, seemingly having a mind of its own. It frizzed with the humidity making it bushy and boofy and depression, like a mantle fell over me. On these days I would avoid the mirror as much as possible, hurriedly brush it and tie it up in a ponytail with a bundle of hairclips, firmly pinning each strand onto my head. I hoped no loose curls would escape to stick out and wave in the wind, triumphantly exclaiming, ‘Ha, ha we are free!’
My despondent mood grew worse as I foolishly compared myself to the singer Crystal Gayle. As I watched her sing ‘don’t it make my brown eyes blue’ I was more captivated with her hair than her sultry voice. Boy! did she have alot of hair! Straight, shiny, glossy and exceptionally long! As a girl who wished for hair just like hers, I recklessly put my hand on my heart and hastily vowed I would never cut my hair again. But in reality I knew my hair would never be blonde like Lorraine Downes and as it seemed to grow out not down, I would never have hair as long as Crystal Gayle’s.
I was slim, at least that was a good thing and of average height - petite, simple, ordinary features that once again added up to me being a ‘Plain Jane,' there was nothing about me to stand out in a crowd. I got called all of the usual things at school: carrot top, ginger nut, freckle face and oh yes, once I was even called a pixie. No man on the planet would ever fall in love with a plain, boring, freckle faced, red headed, pixie!
Being the youngest, my siblings, Andrew and Sarah had already paved the way for me. Over the past few years I had watched quietly on the side-lines as they had travelled through adolescence. They had waded through all manner of trials and tribulations that are part of a normal teenager’s existence. Quietly, I had observed as, one by one, Andrew then Sarah had left home.
I was four years younger than my sister, Mum had not planned on having any more children after her, then unexpectedly, four years later along came a surprise - me! My brother and sister had brown hair and brown eyes, the complete opposite to me, they looked like siblings, they looked like our parents. When I was born Mum was astounded as she caught sight of my tuff of red tresses. At family gatherings as I was the only person with hair the colour of fire, the discussion invariably ended up being about my possible heritage. Jokes were made about the milkman being a red head and just what else had he been doing when he brought the milk? Someone else suggested maybe my colouring was a throw-back from some Scottish ancestor but really, no one knew.
During my childhood my family occasionally attended our local Anglian church. We would all arrive on a Sunday morning adorned in our best clothes. Sarah and I would wriggle and complain as Mum had dressed us in the exact same itchy frock. White, with lace and frills and a baby blue ribbon tied at the waist, these special clothes were not allowed to be worn on any other day of the week - they were clothes kept for Sunday best. After the main church service, all of the children were ushered off to a separate part of the church hall to attend Sunday school. Church was firstly a place to worship but it was also a place to gather and meet with the residents of the neighbourhood, to gossip, organise baking stalls and market days.
As I matured I didn’t technically follow any religion seriously, though I did find solace in praying at night before sleeping. Lying in bed with the covers pulled up, I would quietly place my palms together and softly whisper. I believed in being positive so I prayed for peace on earth and the end of famine and poverty. But most of all I fervently prayed to meet a man: someone who was kind, sincere, loyal and honest.
Was there anyone out there who would take me on?
CHAPTER FOUR
The Hindi word for life is jeevan.
Kishore shook with nervous anticipation as the plane carried him on his way towards his new life. He tried to calm himself by watching the on-board video showing scenic pictures of New Zealand. The unfolding scenes of the country’s landscapes, mountains, snow and rolling pastures mesmerized him. The narrator’s voice hypnotised him with words like, ‘the land of milk and honey’ and welcomed him, as it did all immigrants, to this diverse country where anyone could literally walk off the plane and into employment.
As the plane touched down in Auckland, one thought hit him pretty hard, in fact it was with such a jolt he felt like he had been hit by a train, ‘I am here, I have made it.’ He was excited and nervous in equal measure - he almost muttered out loud, ‘Well Kishore this is it, no turning back now.’ All he had in his wallet was twenty dollars. Telephone calls to Aunt Bhamini, immigration papers and his air ticket were terribly expensive but he was determined to use that one note as a stepping stone to a fulfilling future.
His first taste of being spoken to in a Kiwi accent was by the immigration officer as he asked to see Kishore’s passport. He had to listen carefully to understand what the officer was saying, his accent being very strong. As Kishore collected his luggage different words assailed his ears, of course he spoke English but the sound of people talking seemed so odd.
He walked into the International Arrivals area, searching for a familiar face. He grinned as his eyes locked onto someone beaming back at him. Akarsh, Kishore’s cousin, his Aunt’s son, had come to the airport to collect him. Kishore was relieved to see a recognisable face amongst the crowd. As the cousins approached one another there was a great reunion. They had not seen each other for years and by this time had grown into men. With big silly grins they slapped each other on the back and punched each other’s shoulder.
As they made their way to the exit, Kishore watched as people were rushing here and there – leaving to go on a journey or coming back. Friends and families meeting in Arrivals or seeing each other off in Departures and employees going about their business.
Once outside with Kishore’s luggage stowed in the boot of Akarsh’s tired looking white Vauxhall Viva, they climbed in. Akarsh told him to buckle up his seatbelt, something Kishore was not used to because it was not law in India.
Kishore spoke in Hindi, “Oh no, it is okay, I trust your driving.”
“The law is strict here mate, you have to wear your seatbelt I don’t want to get a ticket” Akarsh replied in English.
Kishore, for the first time in his life obediently buckled his seatbelt.
They left the airport and as they approached the motorway Akarsh indicated, manoeuvred into an empty lane, then pressed his foot hard on the accelerator pedal. Kishore was quiet, he was amazed at all of the greenery and cleanliness but surprised by the lack of other cars and people.
“Where are all the people?” he asked, again in Hindi.
Akarsh laughed out loud and replied in English, “You’d better start speaking in English mate. There are not as many people here as there are in India but today everyone is at work or school.”
Kishore smiled as he remembered a line from the video on the plane stating New Zealand had more sheep than people. Although Kishore knew Aotearoa’s - New Zealand in Maori language ‘land of the long white cloud’ first language was English before he arrived it made him acutely aware of the reality of his situation, he was now in a foreign country and had better start speaking in English as much as he could in order to grasp the strange accent.
He was also soon to discover the cultural differences were huge. The Kiwi accent was one thing but the clothing, mannerisms and the way society worked was another. He was to realise his greatest challenge was all things Kiwi. Words he had never heard before such as ‘mate,’ - his cousin had already called him ‘mate’ twice, chilly bin, fish and chips – pronounced ‘fush un chups,’ pavlova, stoked, awesome and the word ‘aye’ or ‘eh’ at the end of a sentence. Why would people use the word ‘aye?' He came to understand it was a
term commonly used after asking a question, when you want the person to agree with you, such as, “It’s nice weather outside today, aye?”
As Akarsh drove, the needle on his car speedometer never wavered, remaining firmly on the speed limit of 100km per hour. Kishore, lost in his thoughts caught sight of the road signs on the other side of the motorway as they flashed past, Mangere, Onehunga...he wondered how on earth were those names were pronounced? He soon came to realise some words didn’t sound as they were written, which absolutely confused him such as: chemist, picturesque, island, knife, photo and pharmacy.
As they exited the motorway and entered a suburban area the car finally slowed to a more moderate pace. Kishore was intrigued at the pedestrians walking along the footpath. Men wearing wrinkled shirts and shorts with jandals which showed their splayed bare feet. Women with pink painted lips, squeezed into short skirts and tiny t-shirts. Kishore wondered why would people go out of the house looking so casual, immodest and why didn’t they iron their clothes?
Finally Akarsh drove into the driveway of Kishore’s Aunt’s home. He was happy to see his Aunt and Uncle but even happier that now the wheels of the next stage of his life could begin to turn. He had crossed the biggest hurdle, he was here.
He was surprised to see their house. It seemed so big. In fact it was a typical Kiwi house made of brick, with three bedrooms, a garage underneath and a big back yard. Once inside and after being shown to the room he was to share with Akarsh, he was eager to take on his next big challenge, to secure employment. Kishore, determined to find a position in accounting as soon as possible asked his Aunt for the Situations Vacant section from the newspaper. Aunt Bhamini said, “You must take a few day’s rest, Kishore, you may suffer from jet lag, get yourself settled first.”
But Kishore was impatient, his new life beckoned him, he wanted to get started.
CHAPTER FIVE
The Hindi word for happy is khushi.
It was a wonderful time growing up in New Zealand (godzone) in the late seventies and early eighties.
The hippie era was ending and the emergence of computers, big haircuts and even bigger mobile phones was beginning. A melting pot of a diverse range of cultures had just begun to arrive on these shores. New Zealand, still young and under the umbrella of England, was a country known for its peace and beauty but also for its own certain individuality with its unique icons: L&P, paua shells, rugby, beetroot, swandris and Watties tomato sauce.
The fond memories from my childhood were carefree and happy.
Mum and Dad raised us three kids in a typical New Zealand middle class neighbourhood. Quaint wooden 'Neil' houses (a building company that built many new homes in subdivisions around Auckland) lined the streets of the community we lived in. Dad and Mum bought their house with their combined life savings and as newlyweds, with suitcases in hand, moved into the contemporary neighbourhood. Over the years as the houses around them being constructed rose from the ground, the landscape changed from vast empty plots, to the neighbourhoods that exist today. Although the layout of each house was basically the same, each had a different appearance, unique in its own way. The area was designed for young families and was dubbed Nappy Valley due to the many cloth nappies that hung on washing lines and flapped in the breeze.
Mum, Helen was a housewife while Dad, Peter worked for the AEPB (Auckland Electric Power Board). I am not entirely sure what Dad’s job actually entailed only knowing he did something with electricity. When I was quite young, about three or four, Dad occasionally brought one of the company vans home. I remember being so excited as he lifted me into the back and under his watchful eye let me carefully open the little drawers which lined the walls. I liked to pretend I was a pirate looking for lost treasure as I opened each drawer and peered curiously inside at the array of wires, nuts, bolts, sockets and screws.
Dad and Mum spent their Saturdays tending to the garden. Dad mowed the well-manicured lawn while Mum fussed pruning her blossoming roses.
My parents were not rich but then again they were not poor. Being born during a splendid time in New Zealand, Andrew, Sarah and I had a relaxed upbringing. With our neighbouring friends we happily attended the local primary, intermediate and high schools where, we as part of the school curriculum were taught basic Maori language and culture. Being welcomed onto a Marae with a powhiri, giving hongi’s, watching heart pounding hakas and seeing beautiful wahine with moko on their chins dancing with poi’s, were part of a Kiwi child’s culture.
Andrew and Sarah had given into my whining and the three of us clambered onto the couch in the lounge room. I giggled with delight as I had finally convinced my big brother and sister to play a game with me. In our wondrous childhood imaginations, the couch became our boat, the floor was the ocean and placing cushions on the carpet, they were the hungry sharks. With squeals of delight we jumped precariously from couch to chair to couch, hoping not to fall and be eaten. I knew it was just a game but as a four year old the fear I felt of falling into the ocean and being eaten by the sharks was definitely real.
Waiting eagerly with a spoon in our hands we sat at the dining table as Mum placed a bowl of hokey-pokey ice-cream in front of each of us. With excitement rippling through our bodies Andrew, Sarah and I waited for her to shout ‘go.’ As she did, we all used our spoons to quickly whip our ice-cream round and round. The first sibling, usually Andrew, to have the creamiest swirliest ice-cream was the winner. During the long hot Kiwi summer hokey pokey ice-cream was a delightful treat. Creamy vanilla with little golden nuggets of toffee was tastiest when it was whipped smooth, soft and velvety.
It was the summer holidays and I had packed an overnight backpack with my pajamas, toothbrush and togs. Doing up the zip I slid my arms through the straps so it fit snugly on my shoulders. At ten years old I was finally allowed to ride by myself to my friend Louise’s house. I climbed astride my blue Raleigh twenty bike and waved goodbye to Mum, promising I would call her as soon as I got there. I peddled making my way on the footpath, on a familiar route, which would take me along three streets to get from my house to her house. Wanting to gain speed, I pumped my legs harder and harder making the bike go faster and faster and as I didn’t wear a helmet, I felt the wind whipping through my hair. Precariously balancing the bike I let go of the handle bars. I raised my arms high, I was flying, soaring through the air like an eagle. I wanted to shout, “Yaaaahooooo.” In fact I did! All too soon, breathless but exhilarated, I arrived at Louise’s house. Her Mum had prepared a treat of fairy bread, a spread of margarine, sprinkled with hundreds and thousands on slices of bread with the crusts cut off. Once we had eaten, Louise produced a balloon and we went out into the back yard as she blew it up. She fastened the top so we could play catch - the first one to drop the balloon was ‘out.’ Louise’s family were the only people I knew who had their very own swimming pool. It wasn’t just a little paddling pool either but a proper sized pool, deep enough to actually dive into and swim lengths. As we played with the balloon, I peered longingly at the pool, the sun’s rays glistened on its surface, the water was sparkling, it seemed to be calling me, inviting me to jump into it. I didn’t want to ask but I wished Louise would hurry up and say the sentence I was dying to hear, “Do you want to go for a swim?”
Finally she said those magic words and trying not to sound desperate, I casually replied, “Oh, yeah, okay but only if you want to.” In fact I wanted to shout, “YES PLEASE.” Changing into our togs we spent the rest of the hot afternoon swimming and splashing in the refreshing, cool water.
As a teenager, the 80’s rocked for me, wonder woman was my idol and I was in love with life. I was crazy about Bruce Springsteen and was absolutely captivated by the man and his moves when watching his music videos on TV. My favourite food, which no one in the family could understand was marmite and chip sandwiches. I adored the movie E.T. and cried buckets when he finally got to go home.
But our family home that had once echoed with the noisy sounds of children’s laug
hter, squabbles and tears was now quiet as the year I turned eighteen, my two older siblings had flown the coop leaving me the only child left at home. Andrew, who was twenty-four was already married to Tanya and they lived in their own house.
Sarah, who was twenty-two, was engaged to a nice enough bloke and they lived not far away in a simple flat. With their wedding day looming, they were planning to move out of Auckland once married. I met up with her every Wednesday at the gym, we loved participating in the latest exercise craze – jazzercise. Although we sometimes bickered as sisters do, we were now each involved in our own lives.
I had heard all of the clichés about people from India – they were called, amongst other things curry muncher’s. As far as I knew Indian people owned all of the dairies or corner shops and all of the fruit shops all over New Zealand and were bright, happy people who were highly respected.
My Mum often sent me to the local dairy to buy a loaf of bread or a bottle of milk. As I entered the shop, the pungent smell of spicy food being cooked beyond the shop counter, would immediately hit my nose. As I moved towards the counter the shop keeper would emerge from another room, wiping his hands on a cloth as he hurriedly approached the register. Clutching the one dollar note my Mother had entrusted me with tightly in my hand, I apprehensively faced him.
Julie & Kishore Page 2