Julie & Kishore

by Jackson, Carol

  “Yes Miss?” the brown skinned man asked in his funny accent.

  I was hesitant to speak at first to this overwhelming person.

  “A loaf of white bread please.” I finally managed to timidly say as I handed over my note.

  “Yes Miss, certainly Miss, thank you Miss.” the shop keeper replied while moving his head from side to side as he handed me the bread and my change.

  A person from another culture was still a relatively new concept in New Zealand. Immigrants were mostly British or Dutch, their skin colour was the same as everyone else but Indians stood out. They were not white. If your neighbour or work colleague was Indian, it didn’t mean you had to associate with them. An ignorance of each other’s culture and understanding was evident. You were polite to them sure and said a friendly ‘hello’ if that person sat next to you on the bus but nobody wanted to take the time to appreciate each other’s ways.

  Indian women wore strange clothes and what were those bizarre things Indian men wore wrapped around their heads? Or, Indian men resembled Gandhi – you know, short, thin, balding and wearing little round glasses perched on their nose. I had seen strange pictures of people from India doing Yoga and remembered seeing a man in a Yoga book poised in a bizarre position with his leg wrapped around his neck. And what on earth was a guru?

  I didn’t know any better than to listen to these clichés from my childhood. There was never a time when I had, had a real conversation with an Indian person to know any different. Although I do recall one Indian boy during my school years but I had never spoken to him, only seeing him sometimes in the playground.

  Oh the excitement! A school disco! It was my last few weeks of intermediate school, which meant our last chance to be kids as the next year we were to join the cool teenagers or so I thought, at high school.

  As twelve year olds, Louise and I had talked for weeks about this boy or that boy, would he ask us to dance? Mum had sewn an outfit for me to wear, a lavender sleeveless shirt with a matching skirt, when I did a twirl, the skirt lifted right up in a circle around my waist, it was choice! The night of the dance arrived, Louise and I were buzzing with excitement as we arrived together at the decorated school hall. The music was loud but as we gazed around, to our disappointment the glum-faced boys were sitting on one side of the room and the girls on the other. As we joined the solemn looking girls we realised no one was brave enough to make the first move, to venture across the dance floor to ask the other person to dance. Eventually with the teacher’s encouragement we did all get up but still, the girls stayed huddled dancing with the girls and the boys with the boys. Finally a boy managed to manoeuvre himself near enough to a girl to claim he was dancing with her. This gave way for everyone else to follow.

  This was the same in society there was nothing wrong with another race, they weren’t sick or unapproachable - it was just having the courage to break down those barriers.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Hindi word for child is bacho.

  There were two things in his life Kishore felt would be his destiny: firstly, he would settle overseas - secondly he would find an English girl to become his wife.

  Kishore retained happy and challenging memories from his childhood:

  His favourite childhood toy was a little red tricycle, how he loved that bike! He enjoyed pedaling it around on the street below his house, pretending he was a truck driver, he loaded the little tray at the back with bricks then rode around the street delivering them.

  He once found a hole in the ground filled with water from rain the previous day and decided this would be his pot full of dahl (cooked lentil soup). Just like he had seen his Mother do, he found a stick and stirred the dahl around in the ‘pot.'

  About ten minutes from their house was a local sports ground where Kishore and his friends played cricket. The local boys enjoyed a game in the afternoon, after school, using sticks as wickets. One of the boys owned a bat and ball so he was in charge as without him there would be no game. It was imperative as he played that Kishore kept one eye on the game and one on the road, to keep a lookout for his Father, knowing full well if he saw his son playing cricket he would give him a telling off. His Father was not harsh - just stern as he felt his boy should be studying. India’s population was huge and the only way for a person to better himself was to get an education and a degree. Sometimes Kishore saw his Dad on his walk home out of the corner of his eye - he would abandon his game and run like the wind in order to beat him home. He’d race as fast as his legs could carry him along a shorter route he knew of. Up the outside stairs and into the house he rushed, breathing in deeply, he threw himself down on a seat at the table and picked up his book in an effort to look studious. As his Dad walked in the door, Kishore glanced up from his book, smiled and said hello.

  As a teenager he hung out with his friends in the market place. One day, one of his friends noticed a pretty girl coming out of a shop alone. Feeling bold, or perhaps showing off in front of his friends the boy shouted out to the girl, “Hi there, whaddaya doing?" This kind of bold remark was not acceptable for an Indian boy and before he reached home his Father was already there to scold him, angry with his son for being so blatant in public and bringing shame to the family. The boy was rather puzzled, how did his Father know what he’d been up to? Then he realised, the gossip network. Someone must have seen him then told someone else, who told someone else and so it went on until his misdemeanor, at lighting speed reached the ears of his Father.

  The burning heat of the New Zealand sun compares to the sweltering hot summers in India called the ‘dry season,’ a hot hanging heat no one can escape from. The kind of intense heat that makes a person continuously perspire, even the most well dressed, meticulously maintained lady can have sweat dripping down her face with wet marks on her underarms and back. The air is hot to breathe - men and women always carry a handkerchief to mop their foreheads to stop sweat from constantly dripping in their eyes. A man or woman cannot cool down by putting on a pair of shorts, they’re considered a young boys garment and are just not part of the clothing attire.

  Kishore’s Mother washed the family’s clothing by hand and after ringing out each item she would place it in a bucket. By the time she was ready to hang them on the washing line they were already almost dry, due to the intense heat. On these stifling days she made lassi, yoghurt that was whipped with a little sugar added, similar to a smoothie, a delightfully cool and refreshing drink. Air conditioning at that time was thought of as a luxury, the heat was unavoidable in most households. It was just a thing to have to put up with, a long cool glass of water being extremely refreshing to a dry parched throat.

  Just as hot were the nights. It was hard to find refuge from it. After a long, sticky, almost lethargic day, the family was grateful for the arrival of evening when the air became a little cooler. Kishore’s family carried their bed cots up onto the roof-top balcony. The beds had a frame and legs of metal but they did not contain mattresses, the base was woven with jute. This was quite comfortable and the family would sleep happily under the stars in the cool night air. Kishore covered himself with a light sheet to escape the bite of the mosquitoes and would eventually fall into a slumber in the early hours when it finally cooled down enough to be able to sleep.

  Kishore loved to go to the cinema with his friends, especially in the summer when the air conditioning was on inside the theatre. The boys would meet on a Saturday morning and head off into town by bus. The buses were always overly packed with people - in fact men could be seen hanging off the sides of buses. Kishore and his friends would try to sneak onto the bus without being seen by the conductor to avoid paying. This was achieved on most occasions, although once or twice they were thrown off after being caught. Once the group of friends arrived at the theatre they were pleased to get inside out of the heat. People bought tickets just to sit for a few hours to cool down. Kishore found great pleasure in watching the scenery from other countries and escaping into another world while b
eing engrossed in the plot.

  Electricity in Delhi is spasmodic and the wiring from house to house is haphazard to say the least. Power cuts are frequent but this is the way it always has been. While growing up, Kishore’s family did not own a television. The Singh’s who lived downstairs were the first family in Kishore’s apartment block to get one and when movies were shown, three sets of families would crowd into the Singh’s family living room in eager anticipation. He thought it was like having your own movie theatre next door. Everyone sat anywhere, furniture or floor, to admire and marvel at the wonders of television. Invariably, as soon as everyone was settled and eager for the movie to begin, the power would go off – to the instantaneous groans of everyone there. The ladies would get up to prepare cups of tea and snacks. Because of the unreliability of the power supply, most Indian kitchens rely on gas. Tea is made in a pot on the gas element: milk is the base with spices and sugar added. When the tea is ready it’s poured into a teapot that already contains the tea leaves, once brewed, the delicious tea is poured into cups.

  The children would sit in front of the TV for a few minutes hopeful the power would return, eventually losing interest they would drift off to play when – suddenly – the power would return. Shouts of, “It is on, it is on, come back quickly,” could be heard throughout the house, everybody rushed back and sat in front of the screen. It didn’t matter that the movie had already begun.

  But all of these recollections of Kishore’s childhood had a dark cloud hanging over them. These memories were from the time when he actually came to live with his family, before then he lived somewhere else.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Hindi word for queen is rani.

  At the start of my last year of high school I was sent on a work experience course one day a week at a veterinary clinic. I always loved animals and knew in some way I would end up working with them, this course easily set my career path on track. At the end of that year as I finished school forever, I already had employment at the clinic as a vet nurse student. I began studying theory in conjunction with being employed and all going well, I was to be a qualified vet nurse in two years.

  I loved my job and my junior role was so exciting. It was a busy clinic with three vet’s and four nurses, five including me – one senior and three trained. The senior nurse ran a tight ship, she was a trifle scary and I avoided her as much as possible. She was a buxom woman with exceptionally large breasts that sat on her waist and her hair was pulled back so tight her eyebrows stretched across her forehead. The other staff behind her back called her Mrs T, you know from The A Team – and just like B.A. Baracus, she showed a tough exterior but in fact she had a heart of gold. She barked orders at everyone including the veterinarians - who were also scared of her but when it came to the animals, she had the Midas touch, even the most aggressive dog was putty in her hands.

  As I arrived at the clinic each morning, I assisted the other three nurses, steering well clear of Mrs T, cleaned cages, answered the phone, made appointments and ensured the animals were comfortable.

  But the following year, soon after my eighteenth birthday, something changed within me. For an unknown reason I began to have doubts about becoming a vet nurse. I kept telling myself not to be silly, I loved my job and it was the career I had always wanted. True, I was constantly scratching my red, itchy hands - I had discovered I had a reaction to the cleaning chemicals used in the clinic. The other nurses assured me my skin would become immune to the chemicals, as the same thing had happened to them when they first started but I knew something else was not right.

  Sarah and Brett had recently married and had just returned from their honeymoon in Sydney. They were full of exciting stories about their trip and I was secretly jealous. I thought maybe my desire for change could be a yearning to travel. Finally, I bit the bullet and resigned, forging some lame excuse to my boss, muttering something about needing to spread my wings. Although this was true I knew in my heart it was not enough of a reason to leave the career I loved, what I thought was my destiny. With no job prospects in the pipeline, I reluctantly said goodbye to the clinic and the friends I had made while working there, even Mrs T.

  Over the coming weeks I regarded my next career move. To be honest with myself I wasn’t ready to travel and certainly didn’t want to go overseas alone. On the other hand, I hated being idle, I had gone straight from finishing school to working at the clinic so I was bored sitting at home doing nothing. I had absolutely no idea what to do next, knowing only I wanted to do something exciting and different. I even thought about joining the army, that wasn’t boring, would take me out of my comfort zone and would turn my life around.

  As another week went by I became increasingly anxious, I had to do something drastic to change the course of where I was heading. Then as often happens in these situations, a friend of a friend happened to mention she knew of a vacancy at Office Supply Warehouse or O.S.W .(everybody knew the jingle from the radio and TV advertisements – O.S.W…O.S.W. – your stationery needs are no trouble, at…O.S.W!) They were looking for a person to take inventory and supply office products to companies.

  I put the phone down, I had got myself an interview and after a short meeting they offered me the job. I decided then and there to take it. Working at O.S.W. would be a good fill-in position until something better came along. My job description was to visit the workplaces on the company’s database, inventory their stock and take orders for their stationery requirements. This included paper, paperclips, envelopes, staplers, staples and even post–it notes. The clincher of the deal for me was any additional sales above usual orders would result in me getting a commission.

  A few weeks after starting work, I wondered why I had accepted the role in the first place. It wasn’t, in reality, my ideal job. But, with a clenched smile I carried on, biding my time, waiting to be shown the yellow brick road…the next path in my life.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Hindi word for heart is dil.

  The day after arriving in his new country Kishore again eagerly scanned the Situations Vacant columns in the New Zealand Herald. He nearly missed it too but there in the small print was an advertisement for a junior at McAllister and Co. Accountants, it sounded promising. Kishore quickly picked up the phone and dialed the number. After waiting a few minutes he was put through, to his surprise, to Mr Colin McAllister himself and fate stepped in.

  Kishore arrived at the office of McAllister and Co., the day after. Ready for his interview he wore his best suit, in fact the only suit he had brought with him from India. Clutched in his hand he held a folder that contained his certificates and resume. Approaching the front desk he was greeted by a smiling receptionist who introduced herself as Gillian. With the click-clack of her heels on the wooden floor she led him to Mr McAllister’s office. As Kishore stepped inside, Gillian left, closing the door behind her. Mr McAllister rose and extended his hand to shake Kishore’s. He was a mature, stout man, with balding grey hair, a bushy moustache and even bushier eyebrows but his eyes were kind.

  From the moment Kishore sat in the seat offered by Mr McAllister the interview was a blur. He barely took more than a glance at Kishore’s credentials, being more interested in telling Kishore, he too was an immigrant but from Mother England. That he was a soldier in World War Two and had served in India. He happily regaled Kishore with yarns of chai wallah’s and punka wallah’s.

  With Kishore barely saying a word other than “Hello,” Mr McAllister again stood and was pumping his hand. Giving him back his file of certificates he declared, “Well, Mr Patel, welcome aboard, we look forward to seeing you raring to go Monday morning.”

  For two years Kishore happily immersed himself in his new life in New Zealand and new employment. He had fared much better than some of his fellow immigrants who had believed the message given out on the video about New Zealand being the land of milk and honey. They were struggling to find work and understandably anxious about their prospects.

  On
e quiet unassuming day at work, he noticed a fresh face about the place - a beautiful red-head chatting to Gillian, his heart missed a few beats, she was stunning. She finished her conversation, rotated on one foot - almost like a ballerina and began to walk towards Kishore. Smiling at him, her cheeks glowed as she breezed past, leaving a trail of vanilla musk behind her.

  Kishore spun his head in her direction to watch her walking down the corridor. Even from behind she was beautiful with her ponytail bouncing up and down in a saucy fashion. From that moment on Kishore was absolutely captivated by her, besotted. In an instant he knew in his mind she was, ‘the one.’

  With his heart beating a little faster than it should he decided to ask Gillian who the girl was. When Kishore started working at McAllister and Co., he very quickly learnt that Gillian was the one to go to when you wanted to know something or anything. With a gleam in her eye, Gillian told him, the red-head was the new office supply person. From that day on, Kishore kept an eye and ear out as to when the girl was due in the office. He made sure he was around when she visited the other accountants, or that he was in the boardroom with Gillian when the red-head was giving an update of the newest stationery products.

  He wasn’t sure whether what he was doing was stalking but Kishore convinced himself he was just watching her. Well...maybe just a little bit of stalking.