Julie & Kishore

by Jackson, Carol

We reached the car and holding up the basket and blanket Kishore murmured, “Julie, if you give me the car key, I’ll just put these in the dicky.”

  “What?” I asked thinking I had misheard him.

  “I’ll just put these in the dicky.”

  Raising my eyebrows, I said “You can’t say that Kishore.”

  “I can’t say what?”

  “Dicky, you can’t say dicky, in English it means something else.”

  “Really Julie, tell me, what does it mean in English?”

  “It means, it means…” I fumbled to find the right explanation. “It means a body part that a boy has but a girl doesn’t.”

  He cheekily looked at me - did he already know what a dicky was in English or was he teasing me?

  I did want to ask if he was pulling my leg or if he really didn’t know but I didn’t say another word.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The Hindi word for good is achcha.

  It wasn’t long before, in fact about seven months into our relationship that Kishore and I discussed the possibility of marriage. He almost scared me off on our first date with his straight forward intentions. I was glad I had not let myself be intimidated by his comments. I was pleased I had decided to let nature take its natural course. Everything in our relationship so far had fallen into place so becoming engaged seemed to be an imminent progression.

  Kishore never actually proposed to me, it was again Linda who played an important role in this next logical step. She often teased Kishore at work about tying the knot and dropped hints about us getting married.

  One day she cheekily joked, “Come on Kishore, it took you six months to even talk to Julie, is it going to take you six years to propose to the girl?”

  Caught off guard Kishore replied, “You never know, Linda, Julie and I could already be engaged.”

  By this time, Linda and I had become good friends and after receiving this snippet of information from Kishore, she immediately rang me, demanding, “Julie, why didn’t you tell me you and Kishore are engaged?”

  “What?” I said, “That is news to me, as far as I know I am not engaged and if I was, Linda, you would be one of the first to know.”

  That evening after work I asked Kishore what mischievous stories he had been telling Linda. He was surprised I knew, not realising just how quickly women relayed information to each other. He decided to turn this opportunity to his advantage.

  “Well, Julie, my jewel,” he declared, “How about it? Why don’t we get engaged.”

  Although I was a little surprised, I promptly replied, “Okay then, why don’t we?” and that as they say, was that.

  We were now engaged.

  It was time for the next part of the ritual. I chose what to wear with extreme care - a dress I hoped would convey I came from a respectable family. As we climbed the steps to the front door, it opened and out came Kishore’s Aunt Bhamini and Uncle Harilal.

  All of a sudden I had this overwhelming feeling of wanting to curtsy in order to make a good impression but I managed to curtail it. It was extremely important I made them aware that I was a polite and well-mannered Kiwi girl, that I would make a positive addition to the family and be a good wife for their nephew.

  Aunt Bhamini wore a traditional light blue sari. Her hair was tied back and hung neatly down her back in a long plait. She wore red lipstick and as I leant in to give her a hug she smelt of ginger and sandalwood. Uncle Harilal wore a smart suit and his greying hair was lathered back with brylcreem. I had seen my Father many times smooth his hair with the same cream and fondly recalled its unique smell.

  Their living room was quaint with flowery wallpaper and beige carpet. We sat on comfortable chairs with pretty white crochet doilies placed on the arm and head rests. Photos of their three children were proudly displayed on the walls. Aunt Bhamini offered us tea. Kishore’s eyes lit up when she also presented us with little bowls containing a sweet dish she called gulab jaman. The fluffy dough balls, fried like doughnuts, were covered in a sticky sugary syrup, I took a spoonful and it was heavenly, with just a slight taste of cardamom, scrumptious!

  I was overly apprehensive of the meeting but soon felt comfortable in the calm and quietness of their company. I told them I was grateful they had helped sponsor Kishore to move to New Zealand otherwise surely I would not have met him. I knew they would report back to Kishore’s family their thoughts of me. If their opinion was unfavourable then, I wondered, could the family influence Kishore into not marrying me?

  While placing the last spoon of gulab jaman in my mouth, I allowed myself to relax a bit as I felt welcome. An old Indian saying states ‘a guest is god,' this means god could appear on earth at anytime, showing him or herself in any form, so each person must be treated as if they were god, especially if they’re a guest in your house. So I was warmly received into their home and treated with courtesy and respect.

  I was amused to hear Aunt and Uncle speaking with a Kiwi accent mixed in with their own accent, though their traditional customs taught from birth were apparent. They asked me about my family, what did my Father do? How many brothers and sisters did I have?

  I finally plucked up the courage to ask, “Aunt Bhamini do you have any photos of Kishore’s family?”

  “Photos? Of course we do dear,” she said and quickly disappeared returning with a bundle of albums. I was so excited to finally put a face to all of the names I had been hearing about, even if they were out of date. For the next half an hour I devoured the snapshots as Aunty sat next to me and explained in detail each and every person in the main family and some of the extended family. Kishore chatted in a mixture of Hindi and English to his Uncle.

  My anxiety of this meeting had almost disappeared but this lull of my nerves did not last long. I felt myself tense up again as the conversation changed to Kishore’s and my relationship. Being representatives of Kishore’s parents, his Aunt and Uncle felt it was their duty to see how we were getting on together so they could relay it back to India. They had three concerns, they said.

  Firstly, they thought it could be a problem for me to fully understand true Indian culture. Although a person could be told all of the many traditions and customs of India, they believed I would never truly comprehend the meanings behind the many ingrained beliefs that were there from birth. There were some things that could never be taught, as they were part of the life you’re brought up in.

  Their next concern was that they worried I would always feel like an outsider, that I would never fit in. After all, they had experienced this first hand. They had been in New Zealand for a long time and still found some of the Kiwi customs and traditions hard to understand. Coming from two different cultures and trying to appreciate each other’s ways might be difficult for Kishore and myself.

  We both understood what they were trying to say because Kishore had tackled these sorts of situations already - at home, at work, in shops and on the street. He often wondered if he would always be an outsider living as an Indian in New Zealand.

  I lived in my homeland, my country of birth so I felt comfortable, at ease. We had not been to India or attended any Indian functions as a couple but I hoped my love for Kishore would out-weigh any cultural problems we might come across.

  Aunt Bhamini and Uncle Harilal then brought up their third and final worry. It was their belief English people did not take marriage seriously. They said a lot of English marriages ended in divorce because there is no one to go to for advice before they married to see if they’re compatible. In their opinion, a lot of English people tended to jump into marriage not understanding the true seriousness of what they were getting into. Naturally, they believed the parents of the son or daughter getting married should play a big part in the choosing of a life partner for their child because this was the tradition of arranged marriages in India.

  Kishore and I spent a long time convincing them we did understand the seriousness of what we were getting into and that our devotion for each other was absolute, our love
genuine and that our relationship would last.

  We finally left, promising Aunt Bhamini and Uncle Harilal we would come back again soon.

  Getting into Kishore’s car, we both admitted that we felt like we had just been thorough an interrogation, totally drained from so much discussion.

  On the way home, I reflected on the afternoon. It was the first time I had been in a room with Indian people with no westerners for support. Although everyone spoke English during our meeting, there were a few times when, in the excitement of seeing each other, the three of them switched to Hindi. Instantly, I felt cut off from them and blocked out. Sitting in a room full of strangers - his Aunt and Uncle - and not understanding a word being said was terribly uncomfortable and to be sitting in a room full of people with your potential life partner sitting next to you and not understand a word he was saying was very, very bizarre.

  At one point during the conversation, while they were all conversing in Hindi, Uncle Harilal must have said something funny because everyone laughed. Everyone, that is, except me who just sat looking blankly at the smiling faces. Finally, in frustration, I put my head down and stared at my lap. It was the oddest feeling and for the first time a smidgeon of doubt about being with Kishore started to creep into my mind.

  It is the way is was always going to be?

  Kishore had glanced at me to see if I had enjoyed the joke but as I looked at him he saw the blank look on my face and confusion in my eyes. It took a few seconds for him to realise why I wasn’t happy, that I hadn’t understood the funny joke or what was being said. His face changed from sympathy to annoyance. He had taken a long time to grasp the Kiwi accent - he, too, had been in a room full of people and not understood what anyone was saying. He was annoyed with himself because he had not kept control of the situation and made sure everyone stuck to English, or at least kept a running commentary going so I knew what was being said.

  That day we made a pact. Kishore would spend a few minutes whenever we met teaching me a few basic Hindi words. A couple of days later he presented me with a book titled, ‘Learn to speak Hindi’ which resulted in me giving him a sweet kiss and a big hug.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The Hindi word for water is pani.

  Why had he not met me earlier? In Kishore’s mind so much time had been already wasted. If we had met sooner we could already be in the process of really planning our future together. But, he knew it was a silly thing to think because it was fate that decided when it was time to meet his beloved. He believed meeting me was his karma and part of gods great plan in life for him.

  His belief was more than praying to god. It was a strong faith. He had experienced extreme loneliness at times in his life and praying brought him peace of mind and was a great comfort. His religion was his faith, a companion when he felt alone.

  The nights we didn’t meet, Kishore phoned me and we talked for hours not caring we would be tired at work the next day.

  One night I asked him what he had eaten for dinner.

  “Ohh, I warmed up some dahl I had made last night.”

  “What!” I exclaimed, “Are you okay Kishore? Was something wrong with the dahl?”

  “Huh, no Julie, why?”

  “Because you just said you vomited up the dahl.”

  “No,” Kishore chuckled, “I said I wwwarmed up the dahl…on the stove.”

  Kishore’s accent was strong and although I understood him ninety percent of the time, I did occasionally find his pronunciation a bit confusing especially as his w’s sounded like v’s.

  “I’ve been wondering,” I said moving onto my next question, “Which language do you think in?”

  After he had time to think about it Kishore replied. “You know, Julie, I have just realised that I think in English.” English was now such a major part of his life that it had become natural for him to think in the language. Upon reflection he realised he even dreamed in English.

  After our long love talk during which I was lying in bed, I eventually fell asleep with the phone pressed up against my ear. “Juuuuullllliiiieeee, wake up Julie jewel,” Kishore called down the phone.

  “No,” I drowsily replied, “I am sleeping.” He didn’t mind, he was happy just to hear his darling breathing.

  One weekend I suggested we choose a couples song and he asked the relevance in doing this. “Couples often have a song that is theirs,” I explained, he was still perplexed. “It’s what couples do, it’s a bonding thing so whenever they hear that song they know it’s their song.” Eventually I persuaded him it was a good idea. We both enjoyed songs from the ‘70’s especially the Carpenters, the Bee Gees, Abba and even Kamhal. We decided to pick one from that era. Kishore remembered Abba being played in India, after all the band was a world-wide phenomenon.

  Kishore knew my favourite song was, 'How deep is your love' by the Bee Gees, he also liked this song but confessed he didn’t really understand the words. He enjoyed the melody of the brothers singing and the beat of the background music. After explaining the lyrics to him he decided it was an extremely tender and loving song that suited us as a couple. The verse we thought most apt was the chorus:

  'How deep is your love

  I really need to learn

  Cause we’re living in a world of fools

  Breaking us down

  When they all should let us be

  We belong to you and me'

  The words were so appropriate it was as if the song had been written especially for us and for those who did not approve of our relationship. So it was agreed – this would be our song. Whenever it played on the radio we would excitedly exclaim, “Ohhh… it’s our song.” Stopping whatever we were doing we would take each other’s hands and gaze dreamily into one another’s eyes. One morning when I had just arrived at work I received a surprise phone call from Kishore.

  “I was late for work today,” he confessed.

  “Why?”

  “I was listening to the radio on my way to work and our song started playing just as I was pulling into the car park at the office.”

  “So?” I questioned.

  “I couldn’t just leave,” he declared “Julie, it is our song, our song! I would feel like I was betraying us if I left half-way through our song!”

  My heart melted as I wondered if any man could be more romantic.

  *

  Sally, my cousin had been rushed to hospital as her appendix had burst. I was close to Sally and visited her several times in the hospital. Since living in New Zealand Kishore didn’t know anyone who had been in hospital and was interested to know about the medical system.

  All I could tell him was, “the nurse explained to Sally that she would have to spend a week in hospital.” I continued, “the nurse told her she would have to rest a lot when she got home” also, “the nurse said Sally would have to return in ten days to have her stitches out.”

  He listened intently to me finally asking quizzically, “Julie, it is good to hear all about Sally but I have been wondering, who on earth is Denise?” It took me a few minutes to realise I had been saying the nurse so often, the words had merged into Denise denurse-denise.

  This time it was Kishore’s turn to be confused with my accent.

  The mall was crowded with busy Saturday shoppers - excited teenagers giggled with their friends while slurping milkshakes, babies being pushed in strollers stared wide-eyed in wonder at the bright lights and hungry people ate sandwiches and muffins while sitting at cafes that smelt of roasting coffee.

  My dear fiancé was at times becoming bolder and sillier. His romantic side emerged after he became bored watching me browsing through racks of clothes.

  Approaching from behind, he wrapped his arms around my waist, lent his chin on my shoulder and sung softly in my ear. I recognised the romantic Hindi song. He had sung it to me before. At first I swayed from side to side with him, enjoying the intimacy of his lips so close but as I moved about the shop he stayed right next to my ear and went right on singing. I
tried to ignore him but his singing became progressively louder with people beginning to turn their heads to see where the sound was coming from.

  With a pout, I gave Kishore a look that said please don’t, following with a ‘ssssshhhhhhhhhh.’ My disapproval only made him laugh which of course encouraged him to sing louder. I glared at him with another look this one said 'Stop it, you’re embarrassing me.’ But he kept right on singing. As he became louder and more vocal, I managed to dart away and disappear into another shop. He caught up with me, there was no escape, eventually I gave up being embarrassed and let him sing. After all they were only words of love.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The Hindi word for tea is chai.

  We were going to attend our first official family gathering as a couple.

  It was a naming ceremony for Andrew and Tanya’s first child, a son, the first grandchild in my family. Naming ceremonies using a Justice of the Peace were becoming popular for new parents who chose not to go down the path of a traditional baby christening but still wanted a get-together to bless their baby. New Mums and Dads wanted to publicly announce the name they had chosen for their child and enjoy a celebration in the baby’s honour.

  Kishore had not yet met Sarah, Brett or any of my extended family and friends so this was to be the first time I was to show off my Indian fiancé to them. They had heard a lot about Julie and her Indian man and were intrigued to meet the source of all the gossip.

  Although this was not a formal occasion, Kishore took it quite seriously, he wanted to impress my family and make me proud of him. He took ages deciding what to wear, deliberating for hours whether to wear a tie or not.