Julie & Kishore

by Jackson, Carol

  When the movie ended my mind was all over the place, thinking about arranged marriages and parents choosing their partner for their child. As hard as it was, I tried to imagine the circumstances from an Indian cultural point of view.

  Getting up again, this time to make a cup of tea, I quickly settled back on the couch, tucking my legs underneath me as we talked. Kishore told me arranged marriages were normal in India, Iran, Iraq, Afghanistan, Japan and Bangladesh. Western marriages focus on couples in love marrying but, when all is said and done was love enough? The rate of divorce in western marriage is quite high and as I thought about this, I wondered when the lovey-dovey stuff wore off what was left? A lifetime of commitment – a lifetime of marriage to the same person for ever and ever? But if your Mother and Father choose your partner, they make that decision based on level-headed sensibility and wise judgement because their decision had to last a life-time.

  As we continued to chat, Kishore sat closer and put his arm around me. He explained further that Gandhi was in fact married at the age of thirteen, in 1883. His wife was fourteen years old. They both continued living with their own families until they were around eighteen or nineteen and then set up house as a ‘real’ husband and wife.

  Of course there are times when divorce is the only answer but it’s rare. Marriage is meant to be for a lifetime, in Indian marriages you worked through your problems.

  Kishore went to take the movie from the machine and I returned the dishes to the kitchen. Placing the cups and plate in the sink I gazed out of the window. A light drizzle had started to fall, chewing my bottom lip I drifted off into my thoughts. I wondered if Kishore and I were ever to marry could I really spend a lifetime with him? I was slowly coming to understand India’s culture was as different to my own as a fish is out of water. Could I live the rest of my life being immersed in a culture I felt I would never possibly fully identify with? Kishore had told me he believed we were destined to meet, that he had travelled many miles just to be with me. Maybe he was right. Maybe our separate paths were meant to meet but did that mean we were meant to be together forever?

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The Hindi word for king is raja.

  We were on our way to the boarding house where Kishore now lived. After six months of staying with Aunt Bhamini and Uncle Harilal he decided he wanted to be more independent. With his Aunts blessing he found a place with three Fijian–Indian men.

  We entered the house through the back door, which led straight into the simple kitchen, I squealed as cockroaches scurried across the floor. Kishore reassuringly clasped my hand, leading the way, he took me on a tour of the house. I peered into the bathroom, the smell of dampness hit my nose and as I looked up I saw the ceiling was black with mould. The men kept themselves clean and tidy but as for the house they could only do what they could. It was extremely basic, the boys had not managed to accumulate much in the time they’d been there. The landlord had supplied almost all of the furniture, it was in a pretty bad state. The tatty old couch and two arm chairs in the lounge room were a horrible mustard colour, while a chipped Formica table and four chairs sat in the dining room.

  I asked Kishore why, since all the men worked, they couldn’t afford a better place to live in. He explained the boys each felt proud to be earning in a foreign country but were expected to contribute to their families by sending money back home.

  I was taken aback when shown his bedroom which he shared with one of the other men. His landlord had also supplied his bed and a small chest of drawers. Kishore’s belongings were minimal. All he had to his name were a few clothes, an alarm clock, with a built in tape player and about ten music cassettes. Flicking through them, I saw there were many by his favourite singer Mohammed Rafi. Looking closer I noticed another singer called Kishore Kumar.

  “Who is this singer,” I asked pointing at one of the cassettes.

  “He is a very famous Indian singer, a classical superstar, I am named after him,” he proudly announced.

  “What? You’re named after a famous singer! Ha, I am named after a famous actress and singer called Julie Andrews, what a coincidence.”

  When an Indian baby is born the parents consult an astrologer who is given the baby’s birth date, time and place of birth. With this information he confers with his charts. He comes to a conclusion and writes a note to the parents suggesting a letter or sound the baby’s name should begin with. On that premise, the Mum and Dad choose a name embodying the future of that child. A name that will hopefully ensure the child will enjoy a long, happy and prosperous life.

  Looking around the depressing room, I had hoped to see a photograph of his family but there were none on view.

  “Kishore, do you have any photos of your Mum and Dad?"

  Kishore gazed at me, a blank expression on his face, “No Julie,” he finally confessed, feeling a little embarrassed. Being so far from home he realised perhaps he should have but it had never occurred to him.

  Kishore spun on his heel and faced his chest of drawers, turning to look at me, he announced, “Julie, I would like to show you something that is very special to me. I have never shown this to anybody before.” Kneeling down, he carefully pulled open the bottom drawer. Instantly, a strong smell of incense invaded my senses. Inside the drawer, neatly presented on a red cloth was a little statue of an Indian god. Next to the statue lay a little lamp ready to be lit.

  “This is my temple,” he proudly told me. “After showering every morning I pray here and light incense which we call doop. On Saturdays and Tuesdays I light the diva (lamp).”

  I instinctively knew Kishore treasured the temple and felt proud and honoured he had shown it to me. As I peered closer I noticed a tiny golden pendant sitting next to the little god statue, it looked like a Nazi swastika. My first thought was one of disgust.

  “Why do you have a swastika in your temple?” I almost accused.

  “No, Julie,” he quickly replied. “It is not a swastika, we call it a Rangoli.” He explained further. “I was always told the Nazis took this symbol and changed it slightly to suit them, unfortunately now, more people associate the symbol with Hitler and World War Two, instead of peace." He continued, "It is a very important symbol to Hindu’s, I guess it is as important as the cross is to Christians. Julie, the Rangoli is a sign of peace and love.”

  On the way back home in Kishore’s car, I thought more about his life in India. I had for the first time seen where he lives in New Zealand. I felt privileged that he had shown me the house and his temple but after such serious talk regarding his faith, I felt the mood needed to be lightened.

  “Kishore, when you were growing up in India did you have a toilet in your house?”

  Glancing over at me, he saw the innocence in my eyes and decided then and there to play a trick on me.

  “No Julie,” he replied sadly. “We didn’t have a toilet.”

  “Oh, so where did you - you know - go?”

  By now Kishore was forming a story in his mind, his face took on a sad expression, easy enough to do as he was driving and didn’t have to look at me.

  “Julie, there was one toilet on our block and only men were allowed to use it.”

  “What!” I replied. “That’s awful. The men only had one toilet between them? How did they all use it?”

  “I’ll tell you,” Kishore eagerly responded, getting a grip on a good story. “Every morning the men in our area stood in line outside the toilet with a newspaper under their arm. They would wait while each man had their turn.”

  I could never imagine Kishore lying to me so I completely went along with his story.

  “What about the women?” I asked. “What did they do?”

  “The women weren’t allowed to use the toilet, they had to get up very early around three o’clock every morning and go out into the bush."

  I was outraged, I found this appalling but then common sense took over. Looking over at him I caught a twinkle in his eye. I now had an inkling he was tricking m
e but I decided to ‘play his game’ and go along with him to see where his story would take me.

  “They went out in the bush!" I exclaimed, "So if we ever go to India, is it still like that, will I have to go in the bush as well?”

  Kishore was trying his best to be serious but it was becoming too hard for him, he could feel giggles bubbling in his chest, he couldn’t hold it in much longer.

  “Yes, you will but you’ll have to be very careful because there are insects and small animals around at that time of the morning.”

  That was it, he couldn’t contain himself any longer, the bubbling giggles erupted and he burst out laughing. His laughter became so intense he had to pull the car over to the side of the road. Of course, this set me off as well, ripples of laughter changed into waves until tears streamed down our faces. Finally, feeling giddy, we managed to take control of ourselves and wipe our tears.

  I, at last was able to ask, “Kishore, if we ever visit your family home, just where will I go to the toilet?”

  “It is okay,” he replied, shaking his head and again wiping his eyes “We have a normal toilet in our family house.”

  Thank god for that, I hated the idea of getting up early and peeing in the bush.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The Hindi word for temple is mandir.

  Kishore’s devotion was remarkable. I discovered love notes hidden in the strangest of places; in the pockets of my jacket, inside my handbag, in my car – on the mirror, the speedometer and in the glove box. They always began with, ‘To Julie, my precious jewel’ and contained endearing words of love. One particular note said:

  To Julie my precious jewel,

  I love you more than words can describe.

  The sun provides warmth and light to each and every living thing on earth.

  The earth can’t do without the sun, just as I can’t do

  without you, my Julie jewel.

  Another note made me realise Kishore felt his dream of finding the love he had seen in romantic movies had come true. He compared me to India’s national flower – the lotus and wrote loving words that in his eyes and in his heart I was more beautiful than the flower.

  Feeling brave, we were daring enough to hold hands when walking down the street. We were surprised to see passer-by’s reactions. People would literally stop walking or talking to stand and stare at us.

  *

  I parked my sunshine yellow Datsun in front of a big old villa and Louise and I walked up the path towards the front porch. We were visiting two of our other old school friends, Michelle and Kerry who were flatting in the large house with two boys and one other girl. It was a grand old home with big rooms, polished wooden floors and two stained glass windows. I couldn’t understand why the owners of the house were renting it out, the history of the building alone would be enough for me to treat it with extreme TLC - tender loving care - like an object in a museum but I supposed the landlord needed the rent money.

  The girls and their flatmates did not treat the house with TLC, every surface in the living room was covered in dust, it was as if someone had sprinkled talcum powder all over. Michelle made coffee and as we all sat on the cosy chairs - we were soon catching up on all of the gossip. Louise produced a packet of chocolate pineapple lumps from her bag and as we indulged in the chewy, chocolatey sweets, it wasn’t long before the conversation changed to what was actually on everyone’s mind – Kishore being my boyfriend.

  Kerry, the boldest of the girls blurted out the question they were all too scared to ask -

  “Are you pregnant Julie?”

  “Ummm, no,” I replied trying to keep my tone under control.

  “Then why are you still going out with him? Is he paying you?” this was Michelle, she quickly followed up with, “Have you checked his passport? He probably wants to marry you so he can stay in the country.”

  I was infuriated, my face became bright red, if a raging bull was around it would have surely charged at me, how dare they ask me these questions?

  Later in the afternoon, I dropped Louise home and made a bee-line for Kishore’s house. I told him about the remarks the girls had made, emphasising the last comment, not because I believed Michelle, I just wanted to see his reaction. Without a word Kishore went to his room and came back with his passport. Laying it on the table, he opened a page and showed me a permanent resident stamp clearly visible. Being a permanent resident was the first step in becoming a citizen. There was no need for him to marry anybody to stay in New Zealand, he already had residency.

  These types of remarks seemed to be part of the territory of going out with an Indian man so I wasn’t really surprised when one of the girls at work had the audacity to make the comment, “Be wary Julie, if you marry an Indian, you marry the whole family.”

  Indian people look after their elders. Usually the oldest son will take on this responsibility. The son and his wife and their children and his parents will all live together in the same house. If the family is wealthy, a house is sometimes built with three or four levels, with each level containing its own separate apartment so that each son, his wife and their children can have their own separate living quarters.

  In India there is no such thing as rest homes or retirement villages. Kishore had never heard of this concept until he came to New Zealand. Being the eldest son of his family, it’s expected the responsibility of his parents welfare in their old age would fall upon him. Now he was living in his new country he knew one day he would have to deal with this situation, he knew he would eventually have to help his Mother and Father, he would think of the ‘how’ later.

  He did know he would not need to worry about his sisters, once a daughter is married she usually becomes the responsibility of her in-laws family.

  Kishore remembered a childhood fable his Grandma had told him to instill in small children the bond a family should have. That family is extremely important.

  It went like this:

  A Father has three adult sons. He is old and dying and the sons begin fighting over his possessions. He hears their bickering and calls them to his bedside. He tells each son to go to the forest to collect a bundle of sticks. The sons do as they’re told and soon return to their Father each with their own bundle. He then tells each son to take one stick from his bundle and try to break it. Each son does this easily, of course, breaking the stick without difficulty. He then tells the sons to put all of their bundles of sticks together in one pile. He asks the eldest son to tie the now large bundle together with twine. Once the sticks are tied, their Father tells each son in turn to try to break the whole big bundle. Each of them tries but of course they cant.

  You see, said the Father, there is strength through unity, just like the sticks alone you’re weak and your bond can be broken. Bound together, like the sticks you are strong - you are unbreakable.

  *

  We were strolling together in the warm sun of Western Springs Park. Kishore held in his hands an empty picnic basket and blanket. We were heading back to my car after enjoying a picnic lunch in the sunshine. After eating we had stretched out on top of the blanket with the soft grass beneath us. Now, as we walked we were looking intently into each other’s eyes, oblivious of anyone or anything around us. Talking was not necessary as we were so much in love. Suddenly, a tooting noise from behind made us jump. A tram taking passengers through the park was about to run us over! Our romantic moment was forgotten as we quickly scrambled out of the way. As it chugged passed the passengers laughed and pointed at us.

  Once we had recovered from our fright, we continued on our lovers stroll. I asked Kishore about something I had seen Indian people do often.

  “Kishore, why do Indian people move their heads from side to side while talking?”

  Kishore, without answering my question, replied with his own query, “Well Julie, firstly tell me why English people nod their head back and forth when they talk?"

  We both chuckled as we realised it was each cultures way of saying ‘yes�
�� or ‘I agree with you.'

  I also took this opportunity to ask something else I had been pondering.

  “Kishore,” I said, “Why is it that so many Indians own dairies?”

  He again chuckled a little, “I have been wondering when you were going to ask me that. Julie, it is really hard for some immigrants to find work, even if they are highly skilled.”

  “But you found work easily,” I interrupted.

  Kishore, ever the darling said, “That’s because I was meant to meet you, my love and my good fortune.”

  “OK,” I said, feeling slightly flattered but still rolling my eyes a little, “What about everyone else?”

  “Imagine you have just arrived in New Zealand. You try to find work with your degree or experience but cant. Maybe your qualifications aren’t recognised here or the paper work is too costly.”

  “Yes,” I encouraged him “Go on.”

  “It’s easier with immigration to have your own business. That’s why Indians come here and buy a dairy. Their Uncle or cousin might have done it and they will say, come over to New Zealand, I have started my own shop, I will help you to do the same."

  Pondering this I nodded slightly, “I suppose also when people write back home it sounds like a big achievement to say they have their own shop.”

  Kishore smiled, “Exactly! A shop sounds very auspicious and is a great accomplishment.”