Julie & Kishore

by Jackson, Carol

  We reached the immigration officer but before Kishore could hand over our passports the officer glared at Kishore, then at me, then back to Kishore.

  “Who is she?” he asked, jabbing his pen in my direction.

  “My fiancé,” Kishore proudly announced.

  The officer snorted then chuckled, “What is wrong with the girls in this country, couldn’t you find one here?”

  Kishore smiled, “No,” he replied, then turned his head to look into my eyes, “No, there is nothing wrong with the girls in this country but none of them are my Julie.”

  The officer gave us the once over again then took our passports and scrutinised them thoroughly, finally bringing down the rubber stamp on the page with a thud. After retrieving our luggage we ventured outside. I rubbed my eyes - I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. The winter air was hazy and dusty, the street was filled with masses of people and the noise! Taxis were everywhere in a disorderly fashion, it seemed to me there was no division between the right and left side of the road. Cars were all moving together at once here, there and everywhere, with no order. People were walking all over the road while cars drove around them. I had heard of the term ‘culture shock,’ I was amazed and shocked.

  Four taxi drivers rushed towards us, “Sir, Madam this way,” they chorused. Like vultures, they all wanted a piece of the action. Kishore brushed them aside and headed straight towards a taxi of his choosing. He asked the driver the cost to Sundar Garden, Block B, his parents address. Communities in Delhi are broken up into sections with each section divided into areas, which made it a lot easier, geographically, to find your way around. I soon learnt it was best to decide the tariff with the driver before starting on a journey. Once Kishore and the driver decided on the fare and our luggage was loaded into the boot, we both sat in the back and the one-hour trip to Kishore’s family home began.

  I stared wide-eyed out of the taxi window at the huge population of people flocking the streets, poverty was clearly evident and pollution was apparent. Even here on the open road traffic had no order. Cars drove madly in front and around each other. Drivers continuously had their hand on their car horns sending out their impatient message, 'let me through.’ What was the point of all that tooting? It wasn’t going to make the car get through the traffic any faster.

  My jaw dropped as I saw tan-biscuit coloured cows roaming along the road amongst the traffic, they even sat on the road but surprisingly they were never hit. They were not the plump black and white cows we had back in New Zealand but were abundantly skinny with their shoulder bones sticking out.

  Through the neglect and disrepair I saw the rich history of India from the ornate architectural designs of the buildings. After all, I had been told India was once the wealthiest country in the world, teeming with magnificent gold and jewels.

  Our taxi mingled and danced with the traffic manoeuvring amongst the bicycles, motorbikes, trucks, auto-rickshaws and bicycle-rickshaws. My eyes nearly popped out of my head when I saw a whole family – a man, a child and a woman holding a baby, on one motorbike. The whole family! I didn’t see this once or twice, I saw it many times. Even with its big load the motorbike still managed to weave in and out and dart around the other traffic. It scared me in case the people fell off as none of them wore helmets but somehow the whole family held on swaying with the bike as it weaved.

  As the taxi stopped at traffic lights, I felt many eyes upon me.

  The people sitting in the neighbouring cars and auto-rickshaws were openly staring straight at me as was the crowd gathered on the footpath waiting to cross the road.

  Rarely do people in India stand alone, they always gather in groups and due to the countries huge population crowds are generally in a cluster of ten or more.

  They were looking intently through our taxi window. I tried to ignore them and keep my eyes forward - it was so foreign to me. I was now the odd one out, not Kishore. Now I was the minority not the majority, I was in Kishore’s domain. Some of the people had possibly never seen an English woman before and it was most unlikely they had never seen an English woman with flaming red hair and freckles. Even more strange was an English woman with red hair and freckles sitting next to an Indian man. This phenomenon was probably as rare as a bolt of lightning hitting the same place twice.

  As the lights changed to green, I wondered if Kishore’s family and friends would ask the same questions I had been asked. Would they think I was not genuine, that I had some devious reason to be with Kishore? Maybe, I pondered, would Kishore’s family say to him, ‘An English girl? You are going to marry an English girl?’

  Would his friends declare, ‘Be careful, Kishore, Julie might claim you kidnapped her and try to extort money from your family.’ But, I was sure the two key questions would be, ‘Do you want to marry her to get residency in New Zealand?’ and the age old, ‘Is she pregnant?’

  The same questions regarding the validity of our love that I had experienced would possibly be the same questions Kishore would be asked. I hadn’t looked at it in that light before.

  Why did there have to be an ulterior motive, why was the difference in our race such a big deal? Didn’t anyone believe in true love anymore?

  I knew Kishore loved me dearly but really me? Indian women were so attractive with their long silky black hair, dark features and stunning eyes. I knew I certainly wasn’t beautiful. Over the time we had been together I had asked Kishore if he was sure he wanted to be with me. He had replied, I was just being silly, he loved me because to him I was different, really different to the women he was surrounded by while growing up. He insisted he only wanted to be with me and only me forever. He persisted in saying I was beautiful to him and that he was not interested in any other woman. In fact, he had gone so far as to say that if anything ever happened to me he would remain alone for the rest of his life. He said he had given his heart to me and would not give it to another.

  While I was deep in my thoughts Kishore had slipped easily back to his native tongue and was chatting to the driver in Hindi. I realised, as I adjusted myself in my seat that these endearing statements of love Kishore had made scared me. To be put on a pedestal like that, would I live up to his expectations? My whole life stretched before me, could I really spend it all with this man? True, I loved him just as dearly but, a lifetime? Adjusting to his culture and his ways had so far been a challenge and now I was here in India I knew I was to face many more challenges.

  Sure, we were ultimately going to live in New Zealand but still could I possibly have children with him and maybe spend the next fifty or sixty years of my life with him? At unguarded moments like this, these thoughts churned through my mind. I forced myself to wipe them away with an imaginary hand otherwise I believed I’d go mad.

  Now as I listened to him chatting to the driver, I could hear he was happy, the tone of his voice was one of excitement, he was gushing with delight. My doubtful thoughts began to disappear. I felt that same quick bubble of love in my heart I always felt when I truly let myself surrender to my own feelings. Staring at the side of his head, I tried to cast my fears aside as I realised my love for him was possibly even deeper now as I was beginning to see Kishore, as Kishore, here in his own country. At that moment he must have felt my eyes upon him, he glanced at me and smiled. An excited smile, after all he was nearly home. He was about to see his Mother and Father, his family. He had missed them so much and eagerly urged the driver to go faster.

  As the taxi stopped at the next set of traffic lights a disheveled, wild-eyed woman holding a baby in her arms approached our car. She was dressed in a stained purple sari and her hair was pulled back in a tousled bun. Her baby was wearing no clothes except for a cloth nappy, his eyes were open, they were big, innocent and as black as night.

  The beggar headed straight towards my window, without hesitation Kishore told me to ignore her.

  “Madam,” she called through the closed window, “Madam.” I couldn’t help myself, I turned towards her and her ba
by and my heart lurched. I felt so sorry for them but I did as Kishore requested and quickly looked away. It was too late, the beggar knew she had my attention and hopefully my sympathy. Her fingernails scratched the window, “Madam,” she called again, “You have a good life, look at me, I am poor, I have nothing, my baby is hungry.” Kishore again told me to ignore her, it is a business he said they are paid to beg. If we give in, the cycle will continue and they will continue to beg. They steal babies to use as bait and are taught just the right words to use in English to get your sympathy.

  The beggar distracted me from Kishore, “Please madam, just a few coins, just a few, if you don’t give me anything I will come into your dreams at night. You will remember me in your nightmares.”

  Thankfully the lights went from red to green with Kishore urging the taxi driver, “Jaldi, jaldi,” (quickly, quickly). As we stopped at the next lights begging children not older than ten did a little dance. Then a man approached the car selling colourful, twirling windmills, Kishore said this wasn’t so bad as this was his genuine business. I began to understand just how much begging could be a profession.

  As our trip progressed, I noticed shelters set up along the barriers between the lanes of traffic on the road. Large pieces of cloth had been hung as make-shift tents and people’s belongings were scattered around the area. At one set of lights a family were gathered around a fire in front of their tent. These homeless people had set up their camps next to the traffic lights so they were up and ready to beg as soon as the lights flicked to red.

  Kishore explained to me India had no social welfare system what-so-ever. There was no help for the unemployed, elderly, homeless, widows, widowers or single Mothers - yes out of wedlock pregnancies did occasionally happen. People in need were totally dependent on other family members to help them and if there were no family members they resorted to begging.

  As the taxi ambled towards our destination, I again pondered my situation. Had I really left my veterinary nursing career solely to meet Kishore? Was this my destiny? Seeing first-hand the population explosion here in Delhi, I wondered just how Kishore and I had found each other. Millions and millions of people live in India. How did this man sitting next to me find me on the other side of the world?

  This trip was not just a trip to meet Kishore’s family, I wanted to see for myself if marrying him, an Indian man, was really what I wanted. It was a test of my commitment to him. Wearily, I leant my head against the back of the seat and closed my eyes. I needed a few moments to think about the thoughts swirling like a whirlpool around in my head. The time ahead was going to be immensely busy.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The Hindi word for holiday is chhutti.

  My thoughts were brought rushing back to the present as Kishore exclaimed, “Look Julie," he pointed out of the window, “There is my old school, we are not far from my home now.” The car whizzed past a nondescript building. My heart beat faster, reality had hit me, I was about to meet Kishore’s parents. I was extremely nervous, my palms were all sweaty but there was a little thrill of excitement coursing through my veins.

  The taxi began to slow suddenly as there were many people gathered in his street. Neighbours and family members heard Kishore was coming home with his English bride-to-be. It was a big event. How did they know the taxi would be arriving right at this moment? Or, had these people been waiting here all day? I thought with a chuckle that this was what it must be like to be a celebrity surrounded by paparazzi – minus the flashing of cameras in my eyes. If I wasn’t feeling so apprehensive I would have jokingly pulled a pen from my handbag ready to sign autographs.

  Indian communities are all very close-knit - neighbours have their ways and means of finding out all the gossip and what is going on in people’s lives, news travels really fast. If there was an event such as an engagement, marriage, birth or death there was no need to use the telephone, just tell one person, they will tell someone else, who will tell someone else and so on until the entire neighbourhood is informed.

  The car slowly ground to a halt like a marathon runner after a long race. On my left I saw a set of concrete flats and to my right was a garden reserve.

  A swarm of people surrounded the car. Kishore managed to open the door and climb out, he eagerly pushed his way through the crowd towards a middle-aged woman. He hugged her then the man standing next to her. From the photos I had seen, I knew of course these two people were Kishore’s Mum and Dad. Roopa wore a pretty, petunia pink sari and her hair was fastened in a tight bun. Chandra wore a navy blue suit, I could see the family resemblance, Kishore’s Father was an older version of himself.

  I kind of stupidly sat in the car, wondering whether I should try to get out or wait for him.

  As Kishore took hold of his parents hands and pulled them towards the taxi, his smile was huge, spread across his face like the swipe of a paintbrush.

  I had by now decided to emerge by myself. I got out of the car and was just about to shut the door behind me when Kishore and his parents arrived.

  “This is Julie,” he proudly announced with a sweep of his hand towards me. With palms together Kishore’s Mother and Father stood before me and simultaneously said, “Namaste beti” (daughter).

  I copied their gesture and replied, “Namaste Daddyji, Namaste Mummyji.” I then embraced his parents. I had been told never to call Kishore’s parents by their first names. This was unacceptable in Indian culture and anyway I wouldn’t feel comfortable doing it. In fact I would have felt better calling them Mr and Mrs Patel but Kishore had gently coaxed me to call them Mummyji and Daddyji (the ji is added when addressing people especially elders as a sign of respect).

  Polite salutations and introductions were made with Kishore’s younger brother and sisters and soon everyone in his family were hugging us while chattering and laughing all at the same time. The eyes of the crowd were upon us especially me. Finally, after Kishore and his brother had retrieved the suitcases from the boot of the taxi we all attempted to make our way into the family home. As we pushed our way through the crowd, Kishore and I said many hellos to people I had never met before. Eventually we arrived at the lower floor of the block of flats, his parents led the way up the stairs. My new ‘sisters’ Ranjini and Saras each took hold of one of my hands and we followed behind. Kishore and Sunil carried the suitcases and brought up the rear.

  The pictures I had seen of the family were dull in comparison to seeing them in person, I was fascinated. Ranjini and Saras who had been younger in the photos were now seventeen and nineteen years old and were growing into gorgeous young ladies. They both wore modern clothes, casual but respectable, jeans and t-shirts and had caramel skin like Kishore's. As New Delhi in the north of India the skin colour is lighter than in the south. Ranjini’s black, shiny hair was hanging loose while Saras had hers tied up in a high pony tail.

  Upon reaching the top of the stairs we all turned right and entered the family home. The stairs had no lighting and my eyes took a moment to adjust. The walls were concrete and the house smelled garlicky although my first impression was that it appeared so small for six people - five without Kishore. In front of me was the main sitting area. To my right was the kitchen with an array of bowls, pots and utensils covering the bench and beyond the kitchen I could see the glimmer of a bathroom. To the left in the corner of the sitting room was a closed door. I knew this was the one and only bedroom Kishore had told me about.

  Ranjini and Saras led me into the clean and tidy sitting room itself and offered me a seat on the couch. As I sat it felt to be made of vinyl but I could not really tell as most of the furniture was draped in cotton lilac throws. Looking around I noticed prints on the walls of various Indian gods. Only one picture was different to the others and that was of a pretty mountainous landscape. As I scanned the room my eyes fell to the floor, the majority of the sitting area was covered in a large mat of tones of light and dark blue. I knew this type of mat was made of cotton and called a durrie. Kishore and Sunil
emerged from the stairwell, they dropped the suitcases and Kishore joined me on the couch.

  The girls appeared from the kitchen carrying three plates of snacks that I would soon become familiar with. Saras placed on the coffee table a plate laden with jalebis, ladoos and burfis. Ranjini followed suit, one of her plates held two small bowls, both containing salty snacks, one being bhuja and the other matri. Her other plate held pinnis, which I later learnt was Kishore’s Mother’s homemade speciality sweet, treat.

  Offering of food was not be refused in India, in fact, it was considered an insult if you did. Over the next few days, Kishore and I were to visit many friends and relatives. I soon learnt to take only small amounts of their delicious offerings and eat slowly, in this way I would not offend anyone or feel full. Ranjini emerged again from the kitchen, this time she placed a cup of tea in my hand. As I glanced at her, she smiled ‘please drink’ she offered encouragingly.

  English was taught at school as part of the curriculum so I knew speaking to the family was not going to be a problem. Kishore’s Mother was the only person who had a limited understanding of the English language, coming from a generation when girls were only taught the basics at school, enough so they could just read and write in their own language. A time when it was understood that girls would only ever become housewives and Mothers, thankfully these times and attitudes have changed.

  Taking a sip of the tea, I found the taste rich, milky, sweet and a little bit spicy. As I drank I tried to take in all that was going on around me. The house felt welcoming, simple and comfortable.

  Once everyone was seated and settled with a cup of tea in their hand, it was time to hear all of the latest news. The questions came in quick succession, with everyone speaking in a mix of English and Hindi. Kishore translated any Hindi words I didn’t understand to keep me in the loop. How were Aunty and Uncle doing? His Father asked. How was Kishore’s work? Some of the questions were directed at me. How was I feeling? Was I tired? How was the plane journey? What did I think of India so far? Feeling a bit overwhelmed I only managed to reply to the questions with yes or no answers.