Julie & Kishore

by Jackson, Carol

  I met up with Sarah at the gym - at least she supported me. She listened as I vented my anger. In the dressing rooms as we changed into our fluorescent pink and yellow lycra leotards, complete with stripy legwarmers, I wailed, “Sarah, people just don’t understand, how would they know how I feel?”

  We did our warm up exercises, stretching in front of our impatiently waiting instructor, Marc-with-a-c. He had quite clearly spelt out his name the first time we met him, he was extremely good-looking but I instinctively knew he wasn’t interested in girls. He had an infectious, overzealous way about him that would have made Richard Simmons proud.

  With,‘Like a virgin’ and ‘1984’ bellowing from the speakers with a contagious beat, Sarah and I, along with about twenty other men and women followed Marc-with-a-c’s lead. We tried to copy and keep up with his vigorous exercise moves and were encouraged as he yelled instructions from the stage.

  As we left, red-faced, sweaty and exhausted, Marc-with-a-c gave us a thumbs up, Sarah waved and smiled at him while mumbling under her breath, "Thanks for the workout…but…I hate you.”

  We walked back to our cars with my ears still ringing from the thrill of the music. It could have been Madonna and the Eurhythmics themselves at the front of the class telling us to ‘move it’ and ‘come on, you can do it!’ instead of Marc-with-a-c.

  Approaching our cars Sarah put her arm around me, consoling me, telling me the words of reassurance only a sister can give, “Julie, don’t worry about what anyone says, you should only listen to one thing and that is your heart.”

  Once I was home and showered and in the quiet of my room I mulled over my thoughts. I wondered if listening to my heart was enough, could our devotion towards one another endure the criticism, disapproval and conflict placed upon us? As I brushed my hair in front of the mirror, I decided it was immediately apparent that the survival of our dedication to each other depended on the strength of our relationship. Many people had told me we were not meant to be together, that it wasn’t right. I even said it myself countless times.

  With a look of defiance at my reflection, I put my brush down and decided that despite what anybody said, the fact is two people from totally different countries, backgrounds and cultures did meet and fall in love. As I stood and stepped towards my bed, I was certain that if our relationship was going to have any chance, I could not let those who stood in our way break our bond apart.

  We both knew, Kishore and myself that fate had thrown us together. The dilemma and it was a huge one was to convince everybody else of our love.

  *

  Kishore told me he was mischievous as a child and regaled me with stories of his antics. When he was eight or nine years old his junior school had one of those old hand bells and a student was selected each week to walk around the school ringing the bell at the appropriate times. One particular day Kishore had been caught by the headmaster running out of the school gates five minutes before the three o’clock bell as he was eager to be the first child home in his neighbourhood. The headmaster let Kishore go but the next day called him in to his office and sternly told him, “Kishore, as your punishment for leaving school early yesterday, you will be bell ringer for the next week.” This, the headmaster was sure, would make Kishore stay until three o’clock. But, as he was never one to listen to rules Kishore decided to ring the bell at ten minutes to three. He then ran out of the school hoping no one would see him. By the time he was half-way home, the rest of the school crowd had only just left their classes and he arrived home well before his neighbouring school friends. Subsequently, the next day he was again called to the headmaster’s office and sternly questioned.

  “Why didn’t you ring the school bell yesterday?”

  “I did, Sir,” said Kishore.

  “Well,” said the headmaster. “Nobody heard it at three o’clock and at five minutes past I had to ring it myself.”

  In Kishore’s haste to leave school he had rung the bell too quickly and not loud enough. No one had heard it. The headmaster decided Kishore was to continue to ring the bell but his extra punishment this time was to keep his school bag in the headmaster’s office. He could only collect it from him once he had finished his duty. At three o’clock that afternoon Kishore, with extreme vigour loudly walked around the school ringing the bell, he then headed off towards the headmaster’s office to collect his school bag. Slinging his bag over his shoulder, he sheepishly returned the school bell, which was now in two pieces. In his enthusiasm, he had rung it so hard he had broken it.

  I soon learnt Kishore was never one to follow the rules or go with the crowd. It had been his decision to leave India by himself and immigrate to New Zealand and it was also his decision to fall in love with an English girl.

  My parents outwardly supported my choice to go out with a man that wasn’t the conventional boyfriend a good Pakeha girl went out with. The underlying tension was evident. In the 1980’s even a relationship between Maori and Pakeha was strange and practically unheard of.

  My family would mutter comments sometimes in front me and at times behind my back. I heard snippets of conversations from behind closed doors. ‘How could she, it’s not right’ and ‘What if she marries him, what sort of children will they have?’

  I was most surprised when I first told my parents I was going out with Kishore. I hadn’t even told them what he did for a living. Dad was under the impression Indian men were only capable of owning diaries and he stated, “If you marry that man, you know you will spend the rest of your life behind a shop counter.”

  Ignorance was evident as my Dad told our neighbour, Mr Foster about my new boyfriend. Mr Foster chuckled and asked if this boy’s name was Rambuka. Mr Foster did not know my boyfriend was from India not Fiji. Mr Sitiveni Rambuka was a colonel in the Fijian army. With a rumbling of tension within the Fijian government and an imminent coup, the name Rambuka had been in the newspaper recently, so this was of course the first ‘Indian’ name Mr Foster could think of.

  I decided it was high time to invite Kishore to my house so they could see him for themselves.

  The next Sunday evening I answered a knock on the front door of my family home to find Kishore standing anxiously on the other side. He whispered, “Julie, I am really worried they won’t like me.”

  With a dismissive wave of my hand I pulled him inside, trying to sound convincing I said, “Don’t worry, they will love you, just be yourself.” It didn’t appease the apprehension both of us felt in our stomachs. As we walked from the front door and down the hallway, Kishore stopped as his eyes were drawn to the collection of family photos exhibited on the wall of Andrew, Sarah and I at different ages at various family occasions. He smiled as he looked at a photo of me at five years of age beaming at the camera. My nose had a sprinkling of freckles and my ginger hair was in two pig tails that stuck out from each side of my head.

  Andrew was the first person to greet Kishore as we entered the lounge room. He was wary and over protective of his baby sister’s choice of boyfriend.

  The two men shook hands, Andrew tilted up his chin in a manly way while saying, “How’s it goin’ bro.”

  Kishore had learnt the Kiwi way to reply, “Yep, good thanks mate.”

  Mum and Tanya, my rather pregnant sister-in-law, sashayed towards him and Kishore shook their hands. After shy hellos, they both quickly scampered, as fast as a very pregnant woman can scamper, back to the kitchen in the guise of finishing dinner.

  Sarah had moved with her husband Brett to their home in a small town called Leigh, about an hour out of Auckland so they were unable to come to this first dinner. We were a close-knit family and although I was the only child left living at home, we often got together for family gatherings especially when Sarah came for a visit.

  Kishore awkwardly positioned himself on the couch until he saw my Father entering the lounge room. Standing bolt upright almost to military attention he extended his hand, "Hello, Sir, nice to meet you.”

  Dad, taking Kishore�
��s hand replied gruffly “Hmmm, oh yes, Kishore isn’t it? How are you?... Helen! How long until we eat?”

  The three men sat, behaving civilly, making rigid small talk until Tanya entered from the kitchen. She tried to ease the tension by announcing, “Grubs up!” then, “Just joking, could everyone please come to the table, dinner is ready.”

  Mum, with Tanya’s help, had done herself proud, cooking a traditional Sunday lamb roast with all the trimmings; mint peas, roast potatoes, kumara, pumpkin and a thick gravy. As the family sat to eat Kishore felt shy as he had never tasted this type of food before but between bites made polite conversation. My family found it hard to understand his accent. Whenever he spoke, Mum, Dad, Andrew and Tanya blankly stared at him then simultaneously swivelled their heads to look at me. Rolling my eyes, I repeated, word for word, whatever Kishore had just said.

  For dessert, Mum’s homemade lemon cheesecake went down a treat, Kishore had two pieces.

  We all soon relaxed as Dad’s frosty exterior melted and much to Kishore’s and my relief, they thought he was wonderful. It wasn’t long before he became a part of our Sunday roast dinner tradition.

  *

  My memories of December rolling around each year would begin with the preparation of gift lists and the updating of the family Christmas card address book. Two weeks before the big day our fake tinsel tree was pulled from its box in the cupboard, put together and decorated with coloured baubles, tinsel and plastic angels. On Christmas Eve cookies and milk were put out for Santa, not forgetting carrots for the reindeer. With tingling excitement the big day finally arrived, heralded in by the sun, hopefully but not always, because its been known at the last minute to rain. We gathered in the lounge room to open our presents. Every year the whole family united to revel in the festivities, the celebration always made me feel content inside as if a candle was glowing in my heart.

  When we were little, during the summer holiday’s Mum and Dad took us on warm evenings to the beach. Mum packed sausages and salad in the car along with our portable BBQ set. While we swam in the warm water and played on the sand with our spades and buckets, Dad cooked sausages once he managed to light the BBQ.

  When our food was ready he called us to come to eat. Sausages taste so much better outdoors wrapped around a piece of bread and spread with tomato sauce. Once we finished eating and had wiped the sauce off our faces, Dad set up the swing-ball set and we played and played until the sun was setting. Just before it got dark, Mum and Dad loaded up all of our belongings into the boot of the car and we hopped in the back. Happy but exhausted we couldn’t keep our eyes open and slept on the way home.

  It was a ritual to watch the evening news at six o’clock. This was the most important news medium at the time. At-one-minute-to-six every night our whole house was hushed as we sat in front of the television, eager to see and hear the news of the day.

  These rituals are part of Kiwi traditions that most New Zealand families enjoy.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The Hindi word for song is gana.

  Being ever the romantic Kishore loved to enclose me in his arms, resting my head on his chest, I felt sung and safe. Closing my eyes, I breathed in his familiar Cossack smell, it was as if this is where I belonged. We gently rocked from side to side as he sung sweet Indian songs of love softly in my ear. I didn’t understand any of the words but as I opened my eyes and looked up at him, I saw his devotion for me from his dreamy stare. I knew the meaning of the words came from deep in his heart by the way he communicated the songs that were filled with expressions of deep emotion. A particular verse from a gana Kishore sang to me was from a 1970 movie called Aan Milo Sajna.

  Kishore translated its meaning:

  Living far away in separation

  Lest I become tired of living

  Now come back to me my lover

  When he sang the first two lines he felt they portrayed exactly his life before meeting me. The last line portrayed our lives now.

  We began a routine of going to the video shop and hiring old Hindi movies. In the 1980’s video shops were a new concept, to be able to choose any movie and watch it in the comfort and privacy of your living room was terribly exciting. The foreign movie selection was limited, to find a movie Kishore liked was one thing but to find one with English sub-tittles was a harder challenge. The real classic black and white ones were Kishore’s favourite and they soon became my favourite too. Some of these timeless masterpieces were made when his Mother was a child. We ended up watching the same movies that were shot in beautiful, scenic, mountainous locations all over India and around the world, over and over again. I didn’t mind because with repetition I soon began to pick up Hindi words.

  I found it a little odd that the movies included so many songs. Just as we were engrossed in the plot, the scene would suddenly change and the stars of the movie would appear in different costumes and begin a song and dance routine with additional dancers. With each new song came a different change of clothes and landscape.

  Before meeting Kishore, I was accustomed to watching English movies with the same plot and storyline. I naively asked him how the actors had time to change their clothes, hairstyle and make-up between scenes. One song alone, he soon told me, could take five days of shooting, costumes and dance rehearsals were factors, as was the weather. When the song was over the scene changed back to the plot of the movie, until the next song! The actors, Kishore told me, mimed the lyrics. Their acting was really good and I found it hard to believe the actors were only mouthing the words. In India, he said, the singers were just as famous as the actors. We both agreed we loved these old classic movies because they contained gorgeous actors with a natural eternal beauty. The movie that stood out as my favourite was Aradhana, which was made in 1969, a sad and endearing love story, starring an enchanting, graceful actress called Sharmila Targore. I thought her a little like the glamorous beauties - Sophia Loren and Elizabeth Taylor.

  I had heard stories of child brides within Indian culture, which I thought was extremely bizarre. One day while we were browsing through the foreign movie shelves at the video shop, Kishore found an old heart-warming love story on this particular topic.

  He triumphantly held up the case in front of me. The picture on the cover was of a beautiful actress. Not only was the movie on the topic he wanted, it also starred Padmini Kolhapure. Clutching the video cover to his chest and with a far-off look in his eye, he dreamily confessed she was his all-time favourite actress.

  The perfect movie – starring his dream-girl and the topic he wanted me to see - another side to the story of these so called child brides. These children who were pre-ordained to be married were usually childhood friends while growing up and played together probably as neighbours in the same village. Generally the parents of the children would know each other and decide the children should be married, perhaps their wedding would take place at the start of their teenage years when they were around twelve or thirteen years old. The children at that stage wouldn’t know any different and thought it would be fun to marry their life-long play friend.

  We paid for the movie and as my Dad and Mum were out, headed back to my house to watch it. Sitting together on the couch we soon became engrossed in the plot. Ramesh and Sunita (Padmini Kolhapure) from a young age knew they were to marry when they were older. At three or four years old they were the best of friends and even played getting married games. Unfortunately for them, Ramesh’s family had to move away but he and Sunita promised to remember each other and always stay in touch. This was a hard thing to do in those days because the only line of communication was by letter. The families tried to do as they promised but eventually lost contact with each other.

  Ready for a drink and snacks we decided it was time for intermission. Kishore pushed the pause button on the remote and we quickly made a cup of hot Milo and loaded a plate with gingernut cookies. We settled in front of the TV again and pushed play. As we both reached for a cookie at the same time we touched hands an
d turned to gaze lovingly at each other. We then laughed as we turned our heads back to our mugs and simultaneously dunked our cookies into our warm drinks. Gingernut cookies, being hard to bite were perfect for this task, they soaked up just the right amount of liquid to make them soft enough to chew but didn’t get soggy spoiling the enjoyment of eating the cookie by it falling into mush at the bottom of the cup.

  The movie resumed with Ramesh and Sunita growing older, memories faded as each slowly forgot their young playmate. Years passed and they were soon both in their early twenties leading their own separate lives and set of circumstances. Sunita was engaged to someone else but one day, seemingly by chance, she crossed paths with Ramesh. They did not recognise each other but still, something inside each of them sparked some sort of familiarity. Ramesh and Sunita began to see each other as friends to begin with and slowly deeper feelings developed. Although Sunita was already engaged she could not help her strong, confusing attraction to Ramesh.

  Eventually one day when they met up Ramesh began humming a tune from a song he remembered from his childhood. Sunita recognised the song and putting the pieces together they realised they were in fact the childhood friends who were supposed to marry. A tender emotional scene took place as the two had an elaborate reunion. Realising their love for each other Sunita told her fiancé she could not marry him and wed the man their parents had arranged when they were young.