Julie & Kishore

by Jackson, Carol

  Hot tears of frustration sprang from my eyes. I didn’t know what to do, I felt desperate and panic began to take over. As I gazed around me, in my muddled state I began to feel giddy, my head was spinning and the faces of the people walking by strangely rotated glaringly in front of my eyes. Their images circled my vision - the faces were of a kaleidoscope of suspicious looking men with missing teeth, laughing and taunting me.

  Finally an older Indian woman stared at me, a crying, pale faced, red headed girl standing, near hysterical at the side of the market all on her own.

  She was dressed in a mauve sari and her head was covered in a matching coloured shawl but it had slipped back and her silvery grey hair was exposed, “Are you okay, what is the matter?” she asked in English. By this time, I was too upset to speak but made myself take a few deep breaths. The woman came closer and put her arm around me. I was sobbing but managed to convey I had lost my fiancé. Thinking I was a tourist she asked which hotel I was staying at. I almost wailed a mournful Nooooo! as I realised if authorities were looking for me there was no record of accommodation, no hotel registry for police to check if I didn’t return. The vulnerability of my situation sunk in, I had put myself into a position where I had no emergency backup, no plan B. Heck, we hadn’t even discussed a plan A!

  With my heart thumping in my chest, I thought of the one place that would save me. I knew I must get to the New Zealand Embassy. I would be safe there and could phone my parents. I longed to hear the reassuring sound of Mum’s voice. I’d ask her or Dad to somehow arrange an emergency passport, get a ticket and fly home. Home – like a warm blanket being wrapped around me, the only word at that moment that sounded comforting and secure.

  Through my tears and frantic alarm I told the woman, “My fiancé is Indian but I have lost him, please, please help me to a taxi, I need to get to the New Zealand Embassy.”

  “Okay, okay, what is your name dear,” she asked.

  “Julie, my name is Julie.”

  “Try to calm down Julie, I am Mrs Malik, come with me, I will take you to a taxi.”

  She took my hand and led me through the crowd. I didn’t know if what I was doing was right or wrong but I allowed myself to be escorted by her. We reached the gates of the market where Kishore and I had happily entered only an hour and a half before. Mrs Malik, still holding my hand, steered me to the verge of the sidewalk. She put up her hand to wave down a taxi but it went speeding by but the next one she waved at stopped.

  I glanced behind me at the entrance to the market, willing Kishore to walk out of the gate but he wasn’t there.

  Mrs Malik, spoke in Hindi to the taxi driver, I heard the words, ‘New Zealand Embassy.’ I briefly wondered how I would pay the driver and hoped when I arrived at the embassy they would assist me with money.

  I thanked Mrs Malik and left her standing on the curb as I climbed into the car, it drove off and quickly merged with the traffic. I thought of Kishore and felt a great emptiness fill my entire body. There was no turning back - I was now completely alone.

  I closed my eyes for a few seconds to gather my thoughts and realised the radio was blaring, the noise filling the inside of the car. Brought out of my brief solace, I reluctantly opened my eyes. Considering my circumstances the high-pitched penetrating shrill of a female classical Indian singer was not exactly a comforting sound. But louder than the song was the toot-toot of my driver announcing his presence to the other cars. I peeped at him through his rear vision mirror. He was young, only perhaps twenty-five, his greasy black hair was combed back in a slick style. As he opened his mouth to mutter at the cars cutting him off, I saw his teeth already showed the tell-tale orange staining from chewing the betel leaf. He was as far away as a person could be from a Raja (King) so in my mind that is what I cynically called him. Raja looked up at his mirror and caught my eye, he smiled at me. I quickly diverted my gaze, his smile was devious and I felt another emotion at the pit of my stomach, repulsion.

  I swivelled my head and looked behind me through the back window of the taxi, wishing I would see Kishore, hoping he was somehow following me, that he had hailed a taxi and was charging through the traffic coming to my rescue but no, I realised sadly it was not to be.

  The car slowed to a halt as we approached traffic lights, from the corner of my eye I saw a beggar approaching my window, ‘not now, I thought, ‘just go away and leave me alone.’

  I remembered Kishore’s words, to ignore beggars and forced myself to look straight ahead. The vagrant, a small child tapped on the glass. I couldn’t help it, my head, as if it wasn’t my own, spun towards him. His face was dirty and cheeks hollow but it was his big, brown doe-like eyes that stared hopefully into mine. I desperately wanted to open the car door, pull him into my arms and just hold him. Thankfully the lights changed to green and as the taxi drove off, we left the boy standing on the road.

  I glanced, with fearful eyes into Raja’s mirror again, he was looking at back me with a smirk on his face that made my stomach flip. I cried desolately to myself, ‘Oh Kishore, where are you.’

  I glanced back at the traffic behind us but no, Kishore was not there.

  I again realised the vulnerability of my situation, if Raja tried anything now, what could I do? Could I fight him, scream, would anybody help me? Would my friends words now come true? Would I be sold to a white slave trader? Would I become a statistic, just another white-skinned tourist lost in a foreign country?

  I forced myself away from those dark thoughts and focused on what I would do once I got to the embassy. Firstly, I would call my Mum, I strained my memory to think if I had Kishore’s parents phone number written down somewhere in my bedroom at home. No, I was sure I didn’t, I racked my brain to try and remember his parents address. For goodness sake, Kishore had said it enough times, in fact every time we went out he told the driver his parents address so we could get back home. How did I get myself into this? Why on earth hadn’t we planned this better? Feeling like a fool, I banged my forehead with the palm of my hand. Kishore! I wanted to scream.

  Maybe this was all going to be too much, marrying him and always having a feeling of being on edge when facing all of the trials and tribulations that come with cultural situations. Have I been given a sign that I shouldn’t be with him and I should give in and do what society wants and marry a European man? Could this be my final chance to escape? The only reasonable solution I could think of right now was to get to the embassy, ring Mum and ask her to arrange a ticket so I could fly home.

  The taxi slowed, I looked out of the window - we were approaching a sign it said:

  Sir Edmund Hillary: New Zealand High Commission.

  I was relieved and surprised, we had only been in the taxi twenty minutes at the most but then of course I had no idea how far away the embassy was.

  Sir Edmund Hillary and New Zealand, as I read those comforting words the image of the iconic Fatherly figure, a symbol of all things Kiwi appeared in my mind. A flood of relief washed over me and tears pricked my eyes. Julie, I told myself, hold it together just a bit longer. The taxi pulled up in front of the large iron gates. I noticed a group of homeless people nearby, here, even here! I thought. Raja twisted his head around to face me, “Embassy Memsab,” he said.

  I heard a tapping on the car window on the other side from where I was sitting. This time I was definitely not looking at the beggars, ‘go away’ I wanted to scream, ‘I am going through a crisis here, just leave me alone.’

  The tapping continued, “Julie…Julie! It’s me, Kishore.”

  The words sounded strange in my ears, Kishore? How could Kishore be here? I was afraid to turn my head in case I was imagining his voice.

  I turned, I stared, my eyes opened wide, it was him, really him.

  I opened the door on my side and scrambled out of the cab. As I stood and turned, Kishore had already run around the side of the car and was standing in front of me.

  His face said it all, he was as frantic as I was. I practically fell
into his arms. We hugged tightly. Finally enclosed in the security of his embrace I wept onto his shoulder deeply breathing in his familiar comforting and reassuring smell, Cossack and just well, him.

  He pulled apart from me, held my hands and did an inspection, visually checking me from head to toe.

  “Darling, are you all right?”

  I was all right now I was with him, I meekly nodded, “Yes I’m okay,” I croaked.

  “Oh Julie, Julie, I am so sorry I lost you. I searched everywhere for you, I am so, so sorry.”

  Oblivious of anything around us, he gently kissed each of my tear stained eyelids, his lips being moist from his own salty tears. He pulled me close and hugged me to him again. There was no doubt his anguish was as great as mine. As we soothed each other, I finally managed to ask, "But how, how did you know where I was?” Kishore pointed and I saw another taxi, the one he rode in, “I took a taxi here, Julie, come on let’s go home, we’ll get into your taxi and I’ll explain on the way."

  Pulling himself away from me, he walked over to his taxi and paid his driver. We then both climbed into the back seat of my cab. I listened very carefully as Kishore gave the address of his family home to a now bewildered Raja, if I had only listened that carefully before.

  Once we were back on the road, Kishore explained his side of the story. When he realised I was gone he had of course been beside himself with worry. He stopped many people in the market and asked over and over again if they had seen me, he had searched everywhere. Then, as luck would have it, he finally caught a glimpse of my red hair as I walked towards the exit. He tried to push his way through the crowd but by the time he got out of the gate, I was already in the taxi driving away – he was too late.

  I was momentarily amazed, my red hair that I had hated all my life was like a beacon of light in the bush to a group of lost trampers - it had saved me. I understood Kishore’s distress by the tears welling in his eyes. He put his arm through mine, I guess he needed to touch me, reassuring himself I was really there, “The old lady,” he said, “She told me where you were going, where she had told the taxi driver to go.”

  “But I kept looking behind me, you weren’t there.”

  He gently smiled, “I told my taxi driver to take a different route, hoping to get to the embassy faster but it seems we got there about the same time.”

  Back in Sundar Garden with a warm, sweet cup of tea inside us, we relived the whole terrible ordeal again as we told his family the entire story. Kishore then did two things - firstly he didn’t stop apologising, telling me over and over that he would never let me out of his sight again. He loved me so much and proclaimed if he had not found me he would have never given up searching, even if it took the rest of his life. He had travelled all the way to New Zealand to finally find his love so how could he spend his life without me? He had made a promise to my Mother to look after me. How would he have told my family he had lost me?

  Kishore’s second task was to write down in Hindi and English his parents name, address and phone number, telling me to keep it in my purse or somewhere on me at all times. He also gave me some rupees, enough to catch a taxi from anywhere in Delhi to his parents address, “Julie, keep this money to use only in an emergency,” and “don’t get into an auto, you must get a taxi.” When I asked him why he replied, “Autos are too open, Julie, when they stop at traffic lights anyone could reach in and grab you.”

  For the remainder of that day and the next I often felt his concerned eyes upon me, I’d turn to him and meekly smile, “Are you okay," he asked again and again, I simply nodded. It took me two days to begin to feel myself again. I didn’t blame Kishore at all, it wasn’t his fault, it was just a lack of planning from both of us.

  In the taxi on the way to the embassy with Raja, I had seriously thought about my future. Now, I had come to realise that incident had been yet another test, a test to see if we could survive. We were like two swimmers who were tentatively putting our toes in the water feeling the temperature. Could we jump in together and take the plunge? If we did, would we be swimming in the warm, calm tropical ocean or the icy, cold Antarctic sea?

  Our bond was certainly stronger as we had now together endured an extremely emotional event.

  If there was any uncertainty about Kishore’s love for me that incident had certainly dispelled it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The Hindi word for prince is rajakumar.

  Our stay in India was for one month. Twelve days had passed already in a flurry of visiting family, friends, markets and temples. Kishore’s family, including myself had quickly slipped into a familiar morning routine.

  His Father and siblings were not on holiday so life continued as normal for them. Ranjini and Saras attended high school, while Sunil, who was twenty-one, was at university studying to gain a business degree. Kishore’s Father followed in his bookkeeper Father’s footsteps and worked in a bank.

  I was surprised to find that their morning routine was similar to any family home. Everybody rushing to get ready, wanting to use the bathroom first. Mother urging ‘eat your breakfast quickly’ and to the girls, ‘don’t spill anything on your clean school uniform' and 'have you got your books?’ As each person dashed out of the door she exclaimed, ‘don’t forget your lunch.’

  A lunchbox in India is called a ‘tiffian carrier,’ a metal cylinder with three compartments, each section stacked on top of the other with a handle over the top. One compartment might contain dahl or a meat dish, the next a cooked vegetable or salad and the last, rotis and a spoonful of chutney.

  As Kishore’s family flat was on the top floor, they had access to the roof which doubled as a private balcony. They enjoyed this area as a place to sit, chat and watch the goings-on in the street below and be happy for once that they’re not a part of it.

  As we were on holiday there was no rush for Kishore and myself to get ready so we kept out of everyone’s way, most mornings we went up onto the balcony. I liked to go to the edge, lean over the railing and look down at the mayhem that was the traffic, people going about their morning business and the sheer mass of diverse humanity.

  On this morning as I stared at the view from my vantage point, I noticed a lazy mist covering the city. It was as if the clouds had drifted down to join us in welcoming the morning. Across the street in the opposite garden a gentle breeze tantalised the leaves encouraging them to join their dance.

  Kishore and I as a young couple savoured this time. After all, we were still in the full flux of new love so anytime spent alone together was special. I joined him as he sat cross-legged on the concrete floor, we faced each other, taking advantage of the early morning sun. We positioned our backs to soak up its warmth, just like cats, we basked in its rays. I gazed into Kishore's eyes and him into mine, perhaps we would even sneak a tender kiss - knowing our love for each other was apparent, words were not always necessary.

  Once everybody had left the house, before Kishore’s Mother began her daily chores, she joined us on the balcony. As she reached the top of the stairs, she conveniently coughed to announce her arrival. Usually, we discussed our plans for the day while we sat drinking tea and eating breakfast, which we carefully carried up the stairs.

  As I was now immersed in the language, I understood a lot more Hindi. Aided with Kishore’s Mothers broken English, we managed to communicate quite easily.

  Little did I know as she joined us on the balcony on this day she had something special to talk about.

  As she lowered herself to sit, crossing her legs with ease, I was perturbed, as she strangely did not look at me. Although the three of us faced each other in a small semi-circle almost like a little pow wow (although this was the wrong type of Indians to have a pow wow with!) Mummyji did not even try to speak in English. She communicated only in Hindi and directed her conversation solely at Kishore. I sensed it would be rude for me to interrupt so I tried to pick up any distinguishing words but she was speaking too fast. I strained my ears until one wo
rd jumped out at me, a word I did understand, a word that hit me like a bolt from the blue and that was the word for marriage, ‘shaadi.'

  With the continuous toot-toot of the morning traffic echoing from below, his Mother mentioned this word a few times, what was she saying? I was desperate to know. Had I done something wrong? Did she disapprove of us getting married? Did Kishore actually have a secret girl he had been betrothed to marry? Was the truth finally out?

  As I watched Mummyji, although she wouldn’t look at me, I noticed a slight smile at the corner of mouth. With my ears on high alert I heard the word ‘shaadi’ again. I stared at Kishore, piercing my eyes into his downcast head, willing him to make eye contact with me but he was too intent on listening to his Mother, keeping his head down, deep in concentration. When Mummyji finally stopped talking, I nudged Kishore unable to contain my anticipation any longer. Was he going to tell me Mummji and Daddyji didn’t like me and did not approve of us getting married?

  Kishore didn’t react. I nudged him again, harder this time, urging him to explain, “Come on Kishore,” I finally pleaded, “What is Mummyji saying?"

  He raised his head and gazed at me, his eyes dispelling any negative thoughts I had.

  He had the same smile at the corner of his mouth as his Mother.

  “Well…” I almost demanded.

  Kishore just sat there with a silly expression on his face, his smile getting bigger and cheekier.

  “Kishore, tell me,” I pleaded, I was getting frustrated.