It was one week since we had arrived, a Saturday, in fact it was Christmas day. To my surprise I did not miss the usual celebrations, to be honest, I almost forgot it was what had always been for me one of the most exciting days of the year.
Ranjini and Saras were particularly excited this morning as the three of us were planning to go to the mall, they were glad not to have to rush to get ready for school.
As I was preparing for my shower I was urging the water on a pot on the stove to hurry up and boil, we were keen to get ready quickly so we could be on our way.
While waiting, I half-filled the large bucket that was sitting in the concrete shower cubicle with cold water. Finally when the water in the pot was steaming, I carried it to the large bucket and tipped it in. Carefully I locked the cubicle door and undressed, using a small cup to dip into the large bucket I douse myself. I lathered soap on my body then dipped the small cup over and over into the bucket throwing the water over myself to rinse off the soap.
On hot summer days, Kishore and his siblings found using only cold water to wash a blessing. They would challenge each other to see who was brave enough to do this on chilly winter days.
The three of us arrived at the entrance to the mall and as we walked through the main door I suddenly felt like I had been transported to another place. We left the noise, the people and the hustle and bustle on the street outside. Inside the mall fashionable trendy shops rose high above me. I counted the three floors of the shopping complex. Escalators slid upwards snake-like onto each level. Coffee shops, pictures of glamorous models and a few feeble Christmas decorations caught my eye.
I had made a decision while sitting in the auto-rickshaw on the way to the mall. As this was the first time I had left the house without Kishore, I felt bold and determined that today I would do something just for myself. Since we had arrived in India I had relied on others, usually Kishore, for everything. I had him as a guide, an interpreter and a go-between.
I was waiting for the right opportunity to come along but I soon realised the opportunity I chose could have been the wrong one.
As we wandered around the mall I noticed a security guard standing outside almost every shop. Upon approaching the first store, Saras explained that I must leave any shopping bags with the guard. In return he would give me a little, colour-coded numbered ticket, which equated to the amount of bags I had left with him. When exiting the shop I was to show the ticket to the guard and he would return my bags. As we went in and out of different shops, I was a bit disgruntled when some of the guards even insisted looking in our handbags.
Ranjini and Saras took me into a shop that seemed similar to Farmers back home in New Zealand. Leaving our bags with the guard, we headed straight to the women’s wear department. I happily browsed with the girls through racks of traditional Indian attire and a mixture of contemporary Indian and western style clothes. I soon realised I needed to use the Ladies Room, I decided this was my opportunity to do that something bold. I told the girls where I was going, “No, Julie bhabhi,” Ranjini exclaimed, “Kishore bhaiya told us to never leave you alone.”
If going to the toilet alone meant I could do something independently, I was determined to do it and there was no way I was going to listen to Ranjini or Saras.
“I’ll be fine, don’t worry,” I said, waving my hand dismissively, quickly leaving before they could say or do anything to stop me. I collected my bags from the guard and began to search for a sign that said ‘Toilets' but couldn’t see one anywhere. I was used to them being clearly marked. Just my luck this malls toilets weren’t. I travelled up the escalator to the next level and examined the signs I saw but to no avail. I received the usual stares from people as they walked past me, I was beginning to feel slightly worried. I stopped the next woman who was heading towards me and asked for the, “Toilet, kha ha hai?” (“Where is the toilet?”) the woman simply shook her head and walked away. I approached the next woman and asked the same question and saw the puzzled look on her face. The woman asked in English, “What do you want,” relived, excuse the pun, I repeated my question, “Sorry” she said, “I don’t understand.”
By now I was starting to panic and needed the toilet desperately. I thought maybe it was my accent so with the next person I tried a different approach, “Do you know where the Ladies Room is?”
“No,” came the curt reply. I stopped several more people using hand motions, not exactly lady like, and said repeatedly, ‘toilet’ or ‘ladies room,' I even tried the old-fashioned word, ‘powder room’ but still no one understood me. Finally, now immensely frustrated, scared and in desperate need I saw the sign, like a glowing beacon, indicating a ladies room with an arrow.
Triumphantly I entered the modern and clean toilets.
As I was leaving I bumped into Ranjini and Saras, “We were starting to get worried,” exclaimed Ranjini.
Saras said, “We thought we had better come and find you.”
I told them my story, they both started laughing.
“What?,” I questioned, laughing along with them, “What’s so funny?”
“Just say bathroom,” Saras giggled, “Everybody understands bathroom.”
“Or,” said Ranjini, “Say, shuu shuu – shuu shuu means toilet, when we were in junior school, we held up our hand like this,” she raised her hand, which was clenched in a fist with only the pinky wiggling, “The teacher knew this meant we had to use the toilet.”
The next morning as promised Kishore and I ventured downstairs to visit the Singh family, he explained to me on the way just what being a Sikh meant, that Sikhism is a religion originally from Punjab. I asked why the men wore a turban, he said that, to Sikh’s, a turban is like a crown from god. Sikh men never cut their hair, so it is wound and bound around the long cloth and neatly tucked around the head to make the turban.
Wherever we went in India I was always welcomed and treated like a privileged guest and it wasn’t any different in the Singh’s home. We were offered tea and delicious sweets, enjoyed a chat and bid each other farewell.
When we left their pleasant home I reflected on the people we had met so far in Delhi and the diverse and amazing people that were in this world. Kishore and I, an English girl with an Indian fiancé had been warmly received into Kishore’s family home, welcomed into the home of a Christian-Indian family and just as warmly invited into a Sikh family. Where, I wondered, had all the conflict of race in this world come from? The people Kishore and I had met had been so kind, friendly and hospitable.
After leaving the Singh’s, Kishore decided to take me to the cinema. We hired an auto-rickshaw and drove out to a different shopping complex. He purchased two tickets for Amar, Akbar, Anthony an extremely successful Bollywood movie starring India’s most famous acting hero – Mr Amitabh Bachchan. Although this movie was a hit when it was released in 1977, it was currently a rerun at the cinema. Amitabah Bachchan has starred in many, many Bollywood movies and is highly revered - in India he is greater than Elvis or the Beatles. Songs from this movie had been playing constantly on the radio as it was being re-advertised.
The most famous song had the line ‘My name is Anthony Gonsalves…’ it was really catchy, I even found myself singing along to it.
With anticipated excitement we entered the air-conditioned theatre. Looking around I was astonished at the seating capacity which was around one thousand people, I realised I couldn’t even see the whole theatre - it was so large. An usher showed us to our allocated seats in the balcony area, with the dress circle above us. As we sat I realised the comfortable seats were cushioned and reclined.
The movie had no sub-titles but when it began I managed to slowly follow the story line. Some of the words I understood and Kishore whispered the explanation of certain scenes.
Three brothers had been separated when they were little after circumstances led to them losing their parents. Each boy ended up being raised by a different family. A Hindu family adopted the oldest boy and named him Amar. A Cat
holic priest fostered the middle son calling him Anthony and a Muslim family adopted the youngest boy, giving him the name Akbar. As with any Bollywood movie it was full of twists and plenty of song and dance routines, as each brother accidentally bumps into the other as they grow older but of course, at the time they don’t realise they’re brothers. Due to a remarkable storyline the brothers eventually become aware that they are siblings.
The movie was three hours long but the intermission allowed Kishore enough time to go and get ice-creams and two bottles of campa cola. As I examined the unfamiliar and strange name on the bottle Kishore told me coca-cola was not available in India as it was banned in 1977. The coca-cola company refused to reveal their secret ingredient when asked by the Indian government.
We finished our ice-creams and sank back again into the comfy chairs as the movie restarted. As the lights dimmed Kishore reached over and held my hand in the dark, squeezing it tightly, I returned his gesture then threaded his fingers snugly through my own.
Indian movies never show any kissing. The nearest a movie gets to a romantic scene would be the moment the couple look lovingly into each other’s eyes. You might see an unexpected touch of the hand or a hug but a romantic song generally shows a lovers devotion with the couple expressing their feelings with tender words.
On the way back home in an auto-rickshaw I entertained myself by imagining a Bollywood movie made about Kishore and me. The movie would, of course, star the one and only Amitabh Bachchan as the handsome leading man but who would play me? I adored Audrey Hepburn’s chic beauty but she was not the right age. Perhaps Farrah Fawcett or Raquel Welch? No, I decided, there could only be one person to play me and that is Olivia Newton-John, Grease being one of my favourite movies. Sandy was an innocent, sweet and cheerful girl and if Olivia Newton-John, as a red-head with freckles, were to star alongside Amitabh Bachchan I felt the mix would be the perfect combination of Kishore and myself. The film would of course be a box office hit in India and western countries, making our story famous all over the world.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The Hindi word for moon is chandra.
My Delhite - resident of Delhi (I was getting good at the local lingo) fiancé and I headed out the next afternoon in an auto (short for auto-rickshaw – more of the local lingo) to Jan Path, a large popular outdoor open market in the same vicinity as Connaught Place. As we entered we found it was so packed with people, it was hard to take one step in front of the other without being pushed and shoved.
My eyes bulged in wonder as I gazed in disbelief at the scene opening out in front of me. The smells were overwhelming, a heady vibrant mix of spices. The noise was loud and the sounds mingled together. Not being able to understand the language being spoken or shouted and the sound of hundreds of people all talking at the same time is like one roaring hum. Every now and then I heard above the din a vendor’s sing-song voice calling out to people to come to his stall to buy his product.
I clutched hold of Kishore’s shirt tightly as I digested the dynamic images in front of me, a multi-coloured pot pourri mix of market stalls that were open at the front selling anything and everything anyone could possibly want.
Handbags, hand-crafts, scarves, ties, shoes, cushion covers, wall hangings, toys and bracelets - the list goes on and on. All types of Indian food was also on sale – ones I knew of plus much, much more. The aromas were overpowering. The first stall Kishore eagerly headed for was a vendor selling kulcha (which are a type of roti bread fried in oil) and cholay (thick and soupy cooked chick peas). The vendor was stirring the steaming cholay in a big pot, the spicy fragrance wafting up from it was, to Kishore, like a piece of heaven. A lot of Indian food is vegetarian and the variety is endless. He had missed these types of food in New Zealand, the flavours he had known since he was a child, a pure palate of delight.
Indian people rarely use utensils and this occasion was no exception. At outside markets like this one, each food stall will have a bucket or tap nearby to rinse your hands after eating.
Kishore bought one serving of kulcha and cholay for me and one himself. Handing me a banana leaf, which masqueraded as a plate, I saw there were two kulcha with a helping of cholay on the top. The idea is to break off a piece of kulcha and use it to kind of dip and scoop up the cholay.
In other states of India rice is more popular than kulcha or any type of roti. Fingers still replace utensils and the rice acts as a mop to soak up the dahl or vegetables as you eat.
I kept one eye on Kishore as I took my first taste test wanting to see his reaction. I tentatively took a small bite, to his delight, I instantly wanted more, it was just scrumptious. We quickly finished eating and after rinsing our hands, Kishore caught sight of the next stall selling raw parsnips and rushed towards it. The vendor cut a slit through the middle of a parsnip and sprinkled salt and spices - ground coriander and ginger - along it, he then squeezed along the top, the juice from a lime. Encouraging me to have a bite Kishore held it under my nose, “Smell it Julie, it is so yummy.” I sniffed and to be honest, all I could smell was old socks, it just wasn’t my type of taste. In comparison, the happy grin on Kishore’s face as he crunched his way through the parsnip was contagious – reminding me of a boy who had stolen his Mum’s freshly baked cookies straight from the oven.
With a nearly full tummy, we, of course, could not say no to dessert. Kishore bought Indian ice-cream called kulfi, which is prepared in the usual way ice-cream is made with cream and sugar but saffron, almonds and pistachios are added, mango kulfi is also a popular treat. Kishore handed me a paper cup and with a little wooden spoon, I placed a spoonful of the ice-cream in my mouth, the milky taste was absolutely out of this world.
Kishore’s reassurance soothed me so I didn’t worry about ‘Delhi belly.’ I did drink boiled water, most of the time but as for food, I trusted his judgement. He knew what was clean and the best places to buy food from, even if it was from a stall on the side of the road.
Before moving to New Zealand Kishore worked in a suburb of Delhi called Okhla. His pride and joy at that time was his Bobby motorbike, a smaller bike than the bigger and more popular Royal Enfield.
The hour and a half ride home on winter’s evenings was long and bitterly cold. The icy wind bit through his warm coat and crept under the knitted scarf that was wrapped around his mouth under his helmet. Longing for a hot meal, he occasionally stopped half-way home in an area called South Extension at a vendor’s cart on the side of the road. He bought a steaming bowl of goat’s hoof stew or chicken soup and once or twice he had spicy sweet-corn soup. Wrapping his chilly hands around the piping hot bowl, he sipped the tasty brew while chatting to the other patrons who had also stopped. As warmth filled his entire body, he eagerly ate one bowl after another until he felt satisfied. He was then able to climb back aboard his motorbike and continue the journey home, where he ate his Mother’s dinner as well. Being young and working hard allowed him to eat as much as he liked and still maintain his trim figure.
Back to that day at Jan Path market, it seemed to get busier and busier the longer Kishore and I stayed. I clung tighter to him and became scared in case I lost him. The sheer volume of people was just overwhelming. Kishore on the other hand was in his element and excited to be amongst the dynamism and commotion of the market, back on familiar ground in his own territory.
He glimpsed a stall selling scarves on the other side of the market which took his attention and his eye. It was something he had been meaning to buy for me for ages.
Since our first date when I had worn the khaki-green scarf, Kishore had wanted to buy one for me. He had been looking all over for a scarf in that unique colour, which he had never let me forget was his favourite but in the style of his choosing.
He headed directly towards the stall with me still clutching tightly onto the back of his shirt, as he pushed his way through the crowd.
Somehow, I tripped on the uneven ground, I lost my footing, fumbled, let go of his shirt and in his hast
e he didn’t notice. He pushed ahead through the horde of people, I called out, “Kishore, Kishore!” but of course he never heard me.
Before my eyes he was swallowed by the mass and disappeared.
I tried to move forward but the crowd was too strong and dense. I stood on my tippy-toes, putting my hand up to my head like a visor to try to spot him but no, I had lost him, like he had never existed in the first place. I had lost my grip on the only thing I knew not only in Delhi but in India.
Without Kishore, I didn’t know which way to turn. Frantically, I looked around, then tried to find a way through the crowd in the direction Kishore had gone but the mass of people was just too thick. I thought of asking someone to take me to a stall selling scarves but unfortunately for me there was more than one person selling them. Besides, he was probably looking for me right now. How could I ask anybody, anything, anyway – I couldn’t speak Hindi.
I had met many of Kishore’s neighbours, friends and relatives since I had been in India but I didn’t know where they lived or how to get in touch with them. I didn’t know anybody’s phone number or even Kishore’s parents home number. I didn’t even know their address. All I could remember was Sundar Garden, nothing else.
I sighed loudly and stood on my tippy-toes again but I couldn’t see, it was just a mass of humanity and flashes of brightly coloured saris. To add to my worsening situation, I found I was being bumped and pushed and jostled by the crowd as they went about their business. I was moving farther and farther away from him and terror began to rise in my body. How would Kishore find me if I wasn’t at the place where we had lost each other?
Minutes ticked by as the crowd pushed me along with it like we were one unit until I emerged at another side of the market. Realising how far I had come from where I had lost Kishore, I became terrified. How would he find me now? I thought of looking for a police officer but again I realised it was no use, I couldn’t speak Hindi, the reality of my situation set in. I was lost, completely and utterly lost and totally helpless.
Julie & Kishore Page 13