A stuffed roti is created by sprinkling grated onion, potato or cauliflower when rolling the roti, it’s then cooked in the usual way with a little ghee drizzled on the tawa. Stuffed rotis are delicious served with natural yoghurt and are a light meal by themselves. Adding a little sugar when rolling makes a sweet roti, these are welcomed by hungry children after school.
Having always thought yoghurt was something bought at the supermarket, I discovered it could be easily made at home. Kishore’s Mum showed me how simple it was to make, I was really surprised. Yoghurt was definitely something I would be making once I got back to New Zealand.
Additions can always be made to Indian food so it can stretch further. Flour is inexpensive and extremely versatile. When cooking vegetables every part of it is used, nothing is discarded. If an unexpected guest arrives right on dinner time, extra rotis can always be made. Dahl is soupy and can be stretched to feed more mouths.
It didn’t take me long to realise that Mummyji had an ulterior motive while teaching me how to make rotis. She was in fact a truly smart and loveable woman. The two of us enjoyed many laughs while getting to know each other during cooking, creating a wonderful bonding effect. I taught her some easy English words while she in turn attempted to teach me some Hindi words. We laughed at our efforts to pronounce the others language. My attempts at making rotis were hideous but also really funny. Kishore’s Mum knew our time together was short so she insisted on teaching me to cook as well as learn Indian ways, which was her way of getting to know me a little better. While cooking she asked me about my love for Kishore and tried to explain her idea of being a good wife.
With our limited communication I learnt things about Kishore’s childhood that only a Mother has knowledge of. She told me about her marriage to Chandra and the joy she experienced at the birth of her first son. Mummyji told her side of the story when Kishore was left with his Grandma. Unfortunately she became too upset to talk about the six years she spent without him. Although she did recall with a shine to her cheeks, the joy she felt when discovering her next pregnancy.
Kishore’s Mother relished the time we spent together, this gave her time to form her own judgement on whether her future daughter-in-law would fit into her society and be a good wife to her son, regardless of the fact we lived in New Zealand. The eldest daughter-in-law in the family is an important person, as she is married to the eldest son. I knew my capabilities were being tested.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The Hindi word for blessing is ashirwad.
The day of the wedding was fast approaching. All the arrangements had been made and over a hundred guests had been invited. There was no need to send out invitations as the word of mouth network was sufficient enough to do its duty.
All of Kishore’s family, friends and the local neighbours were coming and those who hadn’t been invited would turn up anyway. This wedding was not formal and as it was to take place in the communal garden, anyone could watch and join in the festivities. Kishore said he wouldn’t be surprised if two or even three hundred people arrived on the day.
At any wedding the bride is the main attraction. In this case the bride is of course me. Me! I was still coming to grips with the fact that it was me, who would very soon marry my soul mate. I had to pinch myself to admit I was actually getting married in India - it was hard to take in. The reality of what I was doing, having a wedding without any of my family or friends present was piercing me straight in the heart – like an arrow hitting a bull’s eye.
With no one I could easily talk to, those little doubts still managed to creep into my mind and my self-confidence hit an all time low. Nevertheless, I held my chin high and tried to keep myself busy by helping out with the preparations but I found it was no use. As I observed, everyone was buzzing around like bees, each having their own chore to attend to. I offered my help, “Julie," I was informed, “Help? you are the bride, the guest of honour, you shouldn’t help, go and rest, you will need your strength for your big day.”
Reluctantly, I decided I did need some alone time so I headed up to the balcony. As I reached the top of the stairs I felt the warmth of the winter sun on my face. I headed over to the railing and took a few deep breaths. I closed my eyes and tried to relax. I thought about getting married, a real marriage - there would be no turning back. Could I actually do this? I loved Kishore there was no doubt about that and I had a different kind of love for his family. They were sweet and had accepted me so readily considering I had known them for such a short time. I was going to become Mrs Julie Patel or Mrs Kishore Patel…mmmmm…could I live the rest of my life with that name? I smiled to myself, I supposed it could have been worse, I could be marrying a David Pork or George Ramsbottom.
Better a Patel than a Ramsbottom!
The day before the wedding loomed and anticipation in Kishore’s house was at fever pitch. Kishore, his Father and Sunil had packed a bag each because they were going to stay the night at an Uncle’s house. Any family friend is called an Uncle or Aunty and I was not actually sure if this Uncle was a relative or not. I was a bit emotional as I said goodbye to Kishore but as I thought of how I would look when I saw him next dressed in my wedding outfit and knowing that he had never seen me in any sort of Indian clothes before, I said, “You are going to be so surprised when you see me tomorrow.”
With a wag of his finger, his mysterious reply as he headed out the door was, “Wait and see Julie, I may just have a surprise in store for you.”
What did he mean by that?
This evening was to be the equivalent of a hens or bachelors night. As the men headed off for their own celebration, I soon cheered up as us girls prepared for our own fun.
A jingling sound could be heard coming up the stairwell, which was in unison with each step taken. Japoni entered the room and I saw she wore anklets with teeny-tiny bells linked to each chain, a town crier couldn’t have done a better job of announcing her presence.
Japoni was an expert in Mendhi or as it’s also known, Henna. She was a young girl in her early twenties with a vibrant personality. Kishore’s Mother, Ranjini, Saras and the other local neighbourhood women who had come for the evening were entranced by her as she made a grand entrance into the sitting room, they were all drawn by her effervesce. She didn’t wear a traditional salwar kameez, instead she had on a muslin aqua shirt and a colourful, long flowing hippy skirt. Around her neck was a string of beads and thick bangles clunked on her wrists. Her hair was long and wavy and her glittering eyes captivated me. If I looked up the word gypsy in a dictionary I am sure Japoni's name would be the definition. With her personality being as bright and sparkling as her clothes, I too was soon caught in her trance.
She found an appropriate place to set up her equipment and did so with the dedication of a true artist. As I sat in eager anticipation Japoni mixed the deep red henna paste. Using a little paint brush, she began to intricately decorate my hands and feet and while I watched spellbound, the creation came to life on my body. It took three long hours to apply but the time went by quickly as Japoni kept me amused with funny stories - she was so full of life! Drinking bottomless cups of tea, Mummyji, Ranjini, Saras and the other ladies listened, watched and gossiped.
When Japoni was finally satisfied she leant back to admire her work. I inspected my hands and feet, they were painted in an exquisite henna design - amazing! The intricate artwork was so delicate it reminded me of lace, I was astonished by its beauty.
If time was not a problem, henna needed to be applied a week before a wedding to allow it to dry properly and for the true colour to emerge. Japoni explained the darker the colour of henna, the greater the love will be the groom and his family will give to the bride. The designs would last for about two weeks, depending on how many times I washed them.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The Hindi word for red is lal.
Prayers, celebrating, eating, rituals and the gathering of relatives from other countries, Indian weddings can last many days, perhaps a week or
more.
A bright January sun was shining as I rose on my wedding day, although the air was crisp and cool. My wedding day! As with any wedding the most important task was to get the bride looking stunning for her big day…in this case the bride is me, me!
For our breakfast Mummyji reheated, from the night before, spinach and paneer paranthas (paneer being homemade cheese and paranthas, a flaky pastry type of roti). Mummyji insisted Ranjani, Saras and I eat heartily as we had a very busy day ahead. Our excitement made us ravenous as we gulped down tea and ate with great gusto. After breakfast, our first task of the day was to head off to the beautician who was to attend to my hair, nails and make-up.
We arrived at Paavai’s Beauty Salon. As I settled into the beautician’s chair Paavai herself ran her fingers through my hair, exclaiming she had never seen or felt anything like it before. It’s not as if all Indian women have long straight hair, some do have curls, it was just not overly common and as for my red colouring, that was different.
Perms were all the rage and it wasn’t unusual for girls to sleep at night with hair rollers looped around sections of her hair, most commonly one just above each of her ears. The next morning after removing the rollers a loose bouncy curl would dangle from each side of her face, this at the time, was deemed most attractive.
Paavai was intrigued to hear all about the wedding preparations while she styled my difficult but not impossible curls. Performing her magic, she brushed my shoulder length hair, pinning it into a neat bun while leaving a few loose curls dangling to frame my face. The next task was my make-up. She spent some time choosing just the right foundation for my skin tone and freckles. She then applied artfully to my eyelids a bottle-green eye shadow and used a tiny brush to paint a red colour to my lips. While this was happening I was observing Mummyji and another beautician in an intense discussion as they surveyed the rows of bottles of nail polish. The colours were an array of mostly reds and pinks, capturing the many different shades of the sunrise and sunset. They finally decided on a particular shade of cherry red, which Mummyji proclaimed was the exact match to my bridal sari and would also go nicely with my hair, lipstick and henna.
Bathed in the warm glow of having my make-over, I couldn’t help but smile. Visualizing the finished product of my red hair, freckles, cherry red nail polish, lipstick, henna and a red and gold bridal sari, I dubiously pondered if I was going to end up looking like a Christmas tree decoration!
How I missed Kishore!. Our goodbyes last night now seemed so long ago. How was he feeling at this moment? Did he have knots in his stomach like I did? Were the same niggling thoughts going through his mind about whether we were doing the right thing? And just what was this surprise he mentioned? I wished I could speak to him but of course I wouldn’t see him now until we were about to be married.
With hair, nails and make-up completed, Paavai and her staff waved us goodbye and wished us good luck as we headed back to the family home. I was careful not to let the wind affect the transformation the beauticians had miraculously performed.
It was time for me to get dressed, Mrs Singh, Mrs Roberts and the other neighbourhood women had arrived ready to assist and wait on me as if I were royalty. They made sure my hair and make-up stayed in place while constantly asking whether there was anything else I needed. With my lady helpers attending to my every need I beamed from ear to ear - I felt like a princess, I was so privileged and fortunate.
Two other ladies kept the crew going by making copious amounts of tea and offering snacks. Others talked excitedly as they pointed out of the window to the garden below where the final preparations for the wedding were taking place. The local men were erecting tables, arranging chairs and putting up decorations. I was glad I had eaten a heavy breakfast, I was by now so tense I couldn’t stop shaking, let alone chew and swallow food.
Mummyji had carefully ironed the beautiful silk sari the night before and now she took it from where it lay. As she brought it over for everyone to see, there were cries of ‘isn’t it exquisite,’ and ‘it is magnificent,' the women couldn’t wait to see me in it.
I gazed in awe at the intricate gold beading of my wedding gown. Firstly, the small bodice blouse was put on and as Mummyji predicted, it fitted me perfectly. I then stepped into the underskirt, similar to a petticoat, made of a simple white cloth, which knotted at the waist. The most significant item was next, of course this was the sari itself. Six metres in length of cloth and unless you know what you’re doing, it’s extremely hard to put on.
I watched with intensity as Kishore’s Mum, making sure the pattern was facing the right way, held one end of the material. She then wrapped the sari once around my waist, so the silk hung like a long skirt. Taking the leftover cloth in one hand, she used her other hand to make folds turning the material over and over to form ten pleats. She tucked the pleats near my belly button into the first wrapping of the skirt. She fussed with the sari making sure all the pleats were the same size and were aligned. They fell neatly with the flow of the shiny material, like a cascading waterfall. The leftover length of the sari was taken around my back and pulled up and over the front of my shoulder. This was long enough to put over my head, which I would need to do at times throughout the ceremony.
While all of this was happening, I noticed one of the ladies, Mrs Reddy, another neighbour, looking at my bare feet. She caught my eye, smiled at me and quickly looked elsewhere. Ranjini with the corners of her mouth twitching also witnessed Mrs Reddy’s reaction. “What?...tell me,” I asked Ranjini. She informed me it was an Indian custom that when you look at a person’s toes, if the toe next to the big toe is longer, that person will be the dominant one in the marriage. Scrunching up my face, I bent my head to look down at my toes, the toe next to my big toe was longer. What were Kishore’s toes like? I was pretty sure they were the same as mine. I pondered what this meant. Was I going to be a bossy wife? He a domineering husband? I made a mental note to ask him about it once all of this was over.
Saras come close and told me she had been put in charge of making sure my head was covered during the ceremony. This shows respect and as I was not accustomed to this type of tradition, Saras would lift the sari over my head at the appropriate times.
Mummyji had been standing back scrutinising my wedding outfit with a finger on her lips and her head tilted to one side like a spectator at an art gallery pondering a painting. When she was finally satisfied it was sitting correctly in place, I slipped my feet into the shoes I had bought for the occasion, a pair of elegant golden slip-on chappals.
I lifted the skirt of my sari, just enough to see my shoes, admiring my choice of style. There were pretty, yet classy, intricately beaded with glittering silver and gold diamantes. I had deliberately found a pair with no heel because Kishore was only a fraction taller than me. I didn’t want to tower over him in the photographs.
With henna, make-up, hair, nails and bridal sari all done my make-over was almost complete. Next to go on was the delicate gold jewellery.
As this tradition was not my custom, I didn’t feel comfortable wearing it. I barely knew my new family and did not like the thought of wearing and receiving so much gold. A bride can receive a lot and I mean a lot, of gold from her in-laws. Extravagant twenty-four carat jewellery is passed down to the eldest sons wife on her wedding day, generation after generation. From the stories I had been told it’s a wonder the poor girl could even walk with the weight she carried on her neck, ears, head, nose, wrists and feet. I knew this was an important part of the bridal tradition so not wanting to step on any toes, I kind of suggested to Kishore that I would only like to be given one simple gold necklace. He managed to convince his Mum and Dad, telling them we would relook at the tradition of handing down the gold to me, or possibly Sunil’s wife or Ranjini and Saras, the next time we came to India.
The other gold jewellery I was to wear had been hired.
The giving of rings is just as important in Indian weddings as they are in English weddings but we
had decided to leave this ritual until we returned to New Zealand. This was one tradition I wanted to keep for my second wedding in front of my family and friends.
Exquisite hired gold earrings and bracelets were placed on me, almost with reverence. A gold nose ring was attached to my left nostril and a chain that linked to it clipped into my hair. The last piece of jewellery was the one gold necklace Kishore’s parents had given to me.
Mrs Singh produced a little sticker sachet from her purse, for a moment I wondered what on earth she was doing with stickers, then I realised they were bhindis, the little dots that Indian women wear on their forehead. Worn like a brooch or hair clip, women choose the colour or style they feel like wearing to suit their outfit. Seeing the first little sachet being produced, the other women rushed to their purses to show their packets. Each sachet contained about ten bhindis of different colours and styles: tear drops, the figure ‘s’ and circles of different shapes and sizes. Saras pronounced she was in charge of this decision and inspected all of the bhindis. She finally made her selection and placed on my forehead between my eyes, an emerald green, tear dropped shaped bhindi.
I was now ready for the final touch to complete my wedding outfit. A gajara was pulled from a little box, a decorative flower clip that is attached to the back of the head. The gorgeous jasmine flowers were real, smelt divine and clipped onto my bun. Tumbling down the back of my head the flowers reminded me of an English wedding veil. Sometimes in traditional arranged marriages the groom also wears a type of gajara, which covers his face so his identity is not revealed until he is married.
Julie & Kishore Page 16