A thought flashed through my head, what immature pathetic idiots they were. My eyebrows lifted as I took a closer look and realised my date Lance was one of those immature pathetic idiots. I was just about to whirl around to head towards the door but I was too late, Lance had already spotted me and was heading in my direction.
I apprehensively smiled and muttered, “Hi Lance.”
“Juuuuulllieee, how are ya?” His words were slurred and his breath stunk of a mixture of beer and ash. He’d had far too much to drink already and the night was still young. Draping his arm heavily around my shoulders, he dragged me over to join his friends at the table. Grudgingly, I said my hellos to each person and instantly felt out of place. All I wanted to do was leave. How was I going to get out of here? I glanced around, possibly looking for someone to rescue me. An Indian guy was at the bar drinking a beer, did I know him from somewhere?
With Lance practically ignoring me, I sat for a long tedious hour, eventually making an excuse to go. There is nothing wrong with people enjoying a good time but when they become drunk around me and behave stupidly, I’d rather not be there. Needless to say I never saw Lance on a social basis again.
In comparison, as time progressed with Kishore and me, we enjoyed seeing alot more of each other, things were going well and it wasn’t long before we were seen as a couple.
When he was at work, Linda’s attitude towards Kishore changed. His smile told her all was well in his life. As the weeks flew by and our love blossomed, we both wore that in love, aura that radiated from us like the warmth from the sun on a crisp autumn day.
Linda was all smiles, she knew she had created this happiness between us and as time went by she saw Kishore transform into someone completely different, from a shy Indian boy into a happy, self-assured young man.
I remember a particular episode of the iconic New Zealand TV programme Country Calendar. A proud dairy farmer sat on his horse at the highest point of a ridge. He had taken a moment out of his busy day to survey his vast land - his trusty black and white sheep dog sat faithfully at his side. The farmer was watching his cattle grazing in the paddocks below, his face holding a huge smile of satisfaction. He was proud of his five thousand acre farm on the Canterbury Plains in the South Island. The land he knew like the back of his hand was his achievement and he was content.
This is the same satisfied look I now saw on Linda.
She had taken me under her wing and her stern warning to Kishore was that he had better treat me nicely or else he would have her to answer to.
Most of the time we spent together was at parks or chatting in one another’s cars, neither of us feeling we could have the privacy to express our emotions at each others houses.
It was as if a part of the puzzle in my life had been found. I ignored the doubts my friends put into my head, “An Indian! You’re going out with an Indian?”
Or I was told, “Be careful Julie, he might be hiding from you a wife and children back in India.”
Conversation flowed freely between us and I learnt Kishore was a complete romantic. I didn’t care what my friends said as my heart melted in the heat of Kishore’s flowing compliments. There was no doubt in our minds we were a couple - in fact, it felt like we had known each other all our lives.
We talked and talked and never ran out of things to discuss. We discovered the differences in our childhood were like chalk and cheese. Growing up, I wore jeans and t-shirts, the women in Kishore’s life wore saris.
I ate bread, cereals, meat and vegetables, Kishore ate dahl, subji (cooked vegetables) and rotis (or chapatti - round flat bread).
Although we did find some similarities - childhood games that were universal regardless of race or culture: hopscotch, hide and seek and marbles. Little girls from both countries used their Mother’s old stockings to stretch and jump over while singing counting games, while boys played soccer or catch. We both enjoyed learning to ride a two wheeler bike and ran and played in the street with the other neighbourhood kids.
It was a terrible day, rain was pouring but regardless we had decided to go for a drive. Kishore carefully negotiated the winding roads as he guided his car through the pelting rain, we eventually arrived at Piha, a wild west coast Auckland beach, famous for its black sand and big waves which are popular for surfing. After parking we both clambered into the back seat. Enclosed in the tomb of his car, we snuggled as close as we could, with the rain teaming on the steamy windows we gloriously soaked in the warmth of our love.
He adoringly pronounced,
“Julie… (‘Ju-LEE’ – each time he said my name that way it was like music to my ears)…you are so beautiful.” I didn’t believe him but went along with it, relishing in the fact someone thought that way about me.
Kishore reached for my hair and lightly wrapped his finger around one of my curls, “Your red hair is like little soft, tiny balls of fire.”
Softly touching my face he murmured, “Your freckles are like tiny kisses from the sun.”
Gently pinching my cheeks he whispered, “Your cheeks are like little red tomatoes.”
His fingers moved to my mouth and as he tenderly touched my lips he said, “Julie, your lips are like pink rose petals.”
Finally he took my hand and kissed my palm softly, holding it to his face he declared,
“Your skin is as soft as...is as soft as...three ply toilet tissue!”
Snatching my hand back I hit him on the arm exclaiming “Kishore!”
“Okay, okay, sorry” he laughed, rubbing his arm, “Your skin is as soft as cotton wool.”
He then stared deep into my eyes, he leant closer and softly touched his lips with mine, our first real kiss, he pulled me closer. I held him tighter, both of us lost for an instant in each other’s embrace, our souls drowning in the passion of the moment.
As I became happier I outwardly began to change. I was much more confident about myself - in fact I positively radiated and found myself walking taller. I had finally met someone who liked me for who I was including my fiery red hair, sun-kissed freckles, tomato red cheeks, rose petal lips and skin that is as soft as cotton wool or, apparently three ply toilet tissue.
Kishore had long since declared his love for me. He told me so over and over again. He taught me in Hindi the one sentence he wanted to hear from my lips, “Mai tumse pyiar karti hun” (I love you). I knew I loved him, long before our first kiss I knew but I had never actually said it. In fact, I was pretty sure I loved him from the moment I looked up that day in the lunchroom and saw him hovering over me holding out the pink carnation with a big silly grin on his face.
I didn’t want to proclaim my love until I was absolutely one hundred percent sure, so when I knew, when I was one hundred and one percent sure, I decided to make the declaration a special occasion.
Like most girls I kept notes of important events in my diary. On the fifth month anniversary of our first date, a Tuesday, I secretly bought a happy wedding anniversary card. Carefully crossing out the word wedding I replaced it with the words five month.
With Kishore having no idea of the occasion, that evening we went to his favourite place to eat McDonald’s. Hindus don’t eat beef but he loved fries and chicken burgers. He didn’t even mind that today he would eat vegetarian as the Hindu worship he chose to follow meant he couldn’t eat meat or eggs on Tuesday’s and Saturday’s.
As we approached the counter Kishore asked for fries and a hamburger with just salad, no meat (there was no varied choice of menu in the late 80’s). We were given our meals and looked around for a table, the restaurant was busy for a Tuesday but eventually we found a semi-secluded booth near the children’s playground and sat down.
Regardless of us being in a public place, we felt anonymity was the best way to be alone. Nobody here knew us so we could have privacy in our own company, despite a lot of people being around.
Before starting our meals I pulled the card from my handbag and presented it to Kishore. He was a bit surprised, wondering
what and why we were celebrating.
As he read, his expression took five seconds to change from puzzlement to understanding, a smile spread across his face, “Oh Julie, that’s so sweet, thank you so much.”
He began to wrap his hands around his burger but before he could pick it up, I proclaimed I had something else to tell him. After practicing the little sentence all day I was relieved to be about to say it. I cleared my throat but was interrupted by children running past our table heading for the slides, I cleared my throat again.
“Kishore, mai tumse pyiar karti hun,” I announced.
Kishore’s eyes lit up and he beamed, “Ohh…thank you Julie, I love you too.” Taking his hands away from his food he reached to put his arm around me, I slid closer to him in the booth seat. Cuddling while we ate, children scuttled past us running to and from the playground.
After I had said I loved him once, I couldn’t stop saying it, the words bursting from my mouth again and again like popcorn as it heats and explodes in a pot.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Hindi word for year is saal.
Kishore’s Father was originally from a small village in Punjab. His Father (Kishore’s Grandfather) was the local bookkeeper and highly respected. He was a meticulous worker and made all of his calculations by hand on paper. As with any little country town, life in Punjab was far simpler than in the city. The village people were a close-knit community and the happy children glowed from a relaxed life of playing outside with sunshine on their cheeks.
People who left Punjab to move to a bigger town always referred to it affectionately as their native place. When they returned for a visit they enjoyed coming back home to their roots and catching up with family and friends which gave them a sense of belonging.
The property Chandra’s Father lived in had been passed down from generation to generation within the family. It was a big house made with bricks that had been formed out of mud and had stood the test of time. The furniture was sparse and the house had no electricity or running water.
Some years earlier, Chandra’s second eldest sister, Bhamini, had moved to New Zealand with her husband Harilal. His younger brother had moved to the city when he married, as had Chandra. Big cities provided people with far more work opportunities and greater chances of sending children to better quality schools.
Kalindi, the eldest child in the family, was the only sibling to remain in the Punjab family home. She shared the house with her husband, their three children and Kishore’s Grandparents. Kalindi was a stern woman, the hard life of being a farmer’s wife was etched on her face.
The family’s source of milk was from their cow, named Gauri, she lived in a little annex next to the house. Kalindi milked her daily. Her other chores included cooking, sweeping, collecting firewood, pulling water from the well and washing clothes in the river by beating them against the rocks.
Kishore’s Mother married his Father when she was just eighteen - Kishore arrived fourteen months later. When Kishore was three months old his parents travelled with him on a long and dusty six hour bus journey to the small village in Punjab. They had been asked to come and visit Kishore’s Grandfather who was terribly sick with pneumonia.
As Chandra and Roopa entered the house the mood was sombre. Chandra’s Mother eagerly took the sleeping baby Kishore from Roopa’s arms and the weary travelers slowly ambled into the next room to see Chandra’s ailing Father.
Kalindi watched as her Mother cuddled her baby Grandson. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, she saw a calm and peaceful look on her Mother’s face, at that moment Kalindi hatched a plan. When Chandra and Roopa returned from the other room with furrowed brows, Kalindi tentatively suggested when they leave they should let Kishore stay in Punjab with his Grandparents. She proposed the baby would be a distraction for his Grandmother and with his Grandfather being so ill he would be of comfort to him.
Against Roopa’s will, the decision was made that Kishore would stay. Roopa was only twenty years old and an obedient young Indian wife and as such extremely subservient. A young married woman did not speak against her husband’s decisions or her in-laws wants. She was taught from a very young age to do as she was told without comment.
Silent tears slipped down Roopa’s cheeks as she cuddled Kishore to say good-bye. She nuzzled her face to his chubby neck and deeply breathed in, determined to ingrain into her memory that unique baby smell of her son. Reluctantly, she handed him over to her Mother-in-law. She was upset but she was also proud her son would be of comfort to them. It would be discourteous for her to weep openly, after all her Father-in-law was awfully sick and it was only right to consider his feelings.
Chandra did not want to leave Kishore either but he was powerless. He could not challenge the wishes of his eldest sister or his Mother. He could not disrespect his dying Father nor could he argue with any of them. He was helpless knowing he was upsetting his wife by leaving their baby son behind. He instinctively knew he would never see his Father again but what about his first born son?
Chandra and Roopa’s hearts felt empty as they boarded the bus for the return journey to Delhi. Roopa sat heavily in a seat and looked down at her empty arms, her arms that had just one hour ago held her dear Kishore. Maternally, she smelt them, tears fell as she breathed in the lingering familiar baby aroma. She realised her chest was wet but it wasn’t from her tears. Her milk filled breasts were overflowing, more than ready to be suckled by her baby, the moisture seeping through her top. But, unknown to Roopa, baby Kishore was to never suckle from her again. She took a deep breath and adjusted her dupatta (shawl) to cover her chest, finding a corner of it to wipe her eyes. Chandra, sitting next to his wife had been watching her without comment, presently he took his neatly ironed handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his own eyes. The six hour return bus ride was a long, sad and mostly silent journey with Chandra and Roopa having little to say as they were both lost in their own thoughts. They were quietly wondering when they would see their little boy again.
This situation resulted in traumatic circumstances for Roopa. After all, she was a young teenage bride with an arranged marriage and a first time Mother. She had nurtured and bonded with her baby for three months and to have him taken away from her was tremendously upsetting. Financially, they were less well off as her husband was obliged to send some of his wages each month to Punjab to help with the care of his son.
Kishore ended up staying in the village for six years with his Grandmother. During this time his parents tried, money allowing, to visit as often as they could. Each time they came, Roopa’s sister-in-law kept a vigilant eye over Kishore. The family treasured the growing little boy and did not want him to go back with his Mother and Father. Kalindi by now had five children of her own but the relationship her Mother had with Kishore was extraordinary - none of her own children had created that unique bond with their Grandmother. After the passing of her husband, Kalindi’s Mother took solace in caring for Kishore, taking him under her wing. She cherished him dearly and in return he became especially close to her.
She was the only loving figure Kishore had ever known. She was always there for him, nurturing him, singing him sweet lullabies and looking out for him. It was Kishore’s Grandmother, not his Mother, who was the first to see him crawl, walk and speak his first words.
Finally when it was time for him to start school his parents were able to convince the family he should go back with them to Delhi.
Returning to his family home as the age of six, Kishore hardly knew his Mother or his family. He was sent to school with children he didn’t know. He found living in the big city was completely different to the untroubled life of the country. The simple ways of the village and the kindness his elderly Grandmother had showered upon him were now gone. Even his own brother and sister were strangers and his Mother had another baby on the way.
Kishore treasured the loving memories of the time he lived with his Grandmother. He missed snuggling next to her at night, feeling
her protective hand on his shoulder and knowing he could always go to her for a cuddle when he felt sad or just wanted to be held. His Grandmother had been so devoted to him.
In years to come he often wondered if his desire to move to New Zealand was partly because he never felt like he belonged with his family as much as his brother and sisters did. He had not bonded with his parents for the first six years of his life and had always felt out of place.
Despite this, when Kishore finally came to understand the anguish his Mother had suffered when giving him up, he realised the importance of his relationship with her, he knew he must always show his love for her and felt a need to protect her.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Hindi word for yes is haan.
I had heard the saying, ‘love is blind,’ but a girl from New Zealand falling for a boy from India? I knew that love had blinded our senses. As far as I was aware the only inter-racial marriages that existed were between two people who were the same colour. To marry someone outside your race or culture, to visually stand out - to look different from your spouse - was not a known occurrence in New Zealand.
We were aware our love would have to be strong, not just boy-girl relationship strong but strong enough to survive all that would be thrown at us. If we were going to be together as a couple, despite what anybody said we could not let anybody or anything break our bond apart. The problem was to convince everybody else our love was as strong as we knew it was.
Was it fate that threw us together? Could our love alone endure all that we were to face?
The pressure on me at times became great, I was being prodded, urged and pushed to end our relationship. When I was alone in my room, I continuously worried our love would not weather the storm. I cried into my constant comforting friend, my pillow, asking why my devotion for a man depended on race and colour, I just didn’t understand.
Julie & Kishore Page 6