CHAPTER FIVE
The Hindi word for happy is khushi.
It was a wonderful time growing up in New Zealand (godzone) in the late seventies and early eighties.
The hippie era was ending and the emergence of computers, big haircuts and even bigger mobile phones was beginning. A melting pot of a diverse range of cultures had just begun to arrive on these shores. New Zealand, still young and under the umbrella of England, was a country known for its peace and beauty but also for its own certain individuality with its unique icons: L&P, paua shells, rugby, beetroot, swandris and Watties tomato sauce.
The fond memories from my childhood were carefree and happy.
Mum and Dad raised us three kids in a typical New Zealand middle class neighbourhood. Quaint wooden 'Neil' houses (a building company that built many new homes in subdivisions around Auckland) lined the streets of the community we lived in. Dad and Mum bought their house with their combined life savings and as newlyweds, with suitcases in hand, moved into the contemporary neighbourhood. Over the years as the houses around them being constructed rose from the ground, the landscape changed from vast empty plots, to the neighbourhoods that exist today. Although the layout of each house was basically the same, each had a different appearance, unique in its own way. The area was designed for young families and was dubbed Nappy Valley due to the many cloth nappies that hung on washing lines and flapped in the breeze.
Mum, Helen was a housewife while Dad, Peter worked for the AEPB (Auckland Electric Power Board). I am not entirely sure what Dad’s job actually entailed only knowing he did something with electricity. When I was quite young, about three or four, Dad occasionally brought one of the company vans home. I remember being so excited as he lifted me into the back and under his watchful eye let me carefully open the little drawers which lined the walls. I liked to pretend I was a pirate looking for lost treasure as I opened each drawer and peered curiously inside at the array of wires, nuts, bolts, sockets and screws.
Dad and Mum spent their Saturdays tending to the garden. Dad mowed the well-manicured lawn while Mum fussed pruning her blossoming roses.
My parents were not rich but then again they were not poor. Being born during a splendid time in New Zealand, Andrew, Sarah and I had a relaxed upbringing. With our neighbouring friends we happily attended the local primary, intermediate and high schools where, we as part of the school curriculum were taught basic Maori language and culture. Being welcomed onto a Marae with a powhiri, giving hongi’s, watching heart pounding hakas and seeing beautiful wahine with moko on their chins dancing with poi’s, were part of a Kiwi child’s culture.
Andrew and Sarah had given into my whining and the three of us clambered onto the couch in the lounge room. I giggled with delight as I had finally convinced my big brother and sister to play a game with me. In our wondrous childhood imaginations, the couch became our boat, the floor was the ocean and placing cushions on the carpet, they were the hungry sharks. With squeals of delight we jumped precariously from couch to chair to couch, hoping not to fall and be eaten. I knew it was just a game but as a four year old the fear I felt of falling into the ocean and being eaten by the sharks was definitely real.
Waiting eagerly with a spoon in our hands we sat at the dining table as Mum placed a bowl of hokey-pokey ice-cream in front of each of us. With excitement rippling through our bodies Andrew, Sarah and I waited for her to shout ‘go.’ As she did, we all used our spoons to quickly whip our ice-cream round and round. The first sibling, usually Andrew, to have the creamiest swirliest ice-cream was the winner. During the long hot Kiwi summer hokey pokey ice-cream was a delightful treat. Creamy vanilla with little golden nuggets of toffee was tastiest when it was whipped smooth, soft and velvety.
It was the summer holidays and I had packed an overnight backpack with my pajamas, toothbrush and togs. Doing up the zip I slid my arms through the straps so it fit snugly on my shoulders. At ten years old I was finally allowed to ride by myself to my friend Louise’s house. I climbed astride my blue Raleigh twenty bike and waved goodbye to Mum, promising I would call her as soon as I got there. I peddled making my way on the footpath, on a familiar route, which would take me along three streets to get from my house to her house. Wanting to gain speed, I pumped my legs harder and harder making the bike go faster and faster and as I didn’t wear a helmet, I felt the wind whipping through my hair. Precariously balancing the bike I let go of the handle bars. I raised my arms high, I was flying, soaring through the air like an eagle. I wanted to shout, “Yaaaahooooo.” In fact I did! All too soon, breathless but exhilarated, I arrived at Louise’s house. Her Mum had prepared a treat of fairy bread, a spread of margarine, sprinkled with hundreds and thousands on slices of bread with the crusts cut off. Once we had eaten, Louise produced a balloon and we went out into the back yard as she blew it up. She fastened the top so we could play catch - the first one to drop the balloon was ‘out.’ Louise’s family were the only people I knew who had their very own swimming pool. It wasn’t just a little paddling pool either but a proper sized pool, deep enough to actually dive into and swim lengths. As we played with the balloon, I peered longingly at the pool, the sun’s rays glistened on its surface, the water was sparkling, it seemed to be calling me, inviting me to jump into it. I didn’t want to ask but I wished Louise would hurry up and say the sentence I was dying to hear, “Do you want to go for a swim?”
Finally she said those magic words and trying not to sound desperate, I casually replied, “Oh, yeah, okay but only if you want to.” In fact I wanted to shout, “YES PLEASE.” Changing into our togs we spent the rest of the hot afternoon swimming and splashing in the refreshing, cool water.
As a teenager, the 80’s rocked for me, wonder woman was my idol and I was in love with life. I was crazy about Bruce Springsteen and was absolutely captivated by the man and his moves when watching his music videos on TV. My favourite food, which no one in the family could understand was marmite and chip sandwiches. I adored the movie E.T. and cried buckets when he finally got to go home.
But our family home that had once echoed with the noisy sounds of children’s laughter, squabbles and tears was now quiet as the year I turned eighteen, my two older siblings had flown the coop leaving me the only child left at home. Andrew, who was twenty-four was already married to Tanya and they lived in their own house.
Sarah, who was twenty-two, was engaged to a nice enough bloke and they lived not far away in a simple flat. With their wedding day looming, they were planning to move out of Auckland once married. I met up with her every Wednesday at the gym, we loved participating in the latest exercise craze – jazzercise. Although we sometimes bickered as sisters do, we were now each involved in our own lives.
I had heard all of the clichés about people from India – they were called, amongst other things curry muncher’s. As far as I knew Indian people owned all of the dairies or corner shops and all of the fruit shops all over New Zealand and were bright, happy people who were highly respected.
My Mum often sent me to the local dairy to buy a loaf of bread or a bottle of milk. As I entered the shop, the pungent smell of spicy food being cooked beyond the shop counter, would immediately hit my nose. As I moved towards the counter the shop keeper would emerge from another room, wiping his hands on a cloth as he hurriedly approached the register. Clutching the one dollar note my Mother had entrusted me with tightly in my hand, I apprehensively faced him.
“Yes Miss?” the brown skinned man asked in his funny accent.
I was hesitant to speak at first to this overwhelming person.
“A loaf of white bread please.” I finally managed to timidly say as I handed over my note.
“Yes Miss, certainly Miss, thank you Miss.” the shop keeper replied while moving his head from side to side as he handed me the bread and my change.
A person from another culture was still a relatively new concept in New Zealand. Immigrants were mostly British or Dutch, their skin colour was the same as everyone else but Indians stood out. They were not white. If your neighbour or work colleague was Indian, it didn’t mean you had to associate with them. An ignorance of each other’s culture and understanding was evident. You were polite to them sure and said a friendly ‘hello’ if that person sat next to you on the bus but nobody wanted to take the time to appreciate each other’s ways.
Indian women wore strange clothes and what were those bizarre things Indian men wore wrapped around their heads? Or, Indian men resembled Gandhi – you know, short, thin, balding and wearing little round glasses perched on their nose. I had seen strange pictures of people from India doing Yoga and remembered seeing a man in a Yoga book poised in a bizarre position with his leg wrapped around his neck. And what on earth was a guru?
I didn’t know any better than to listen to these clichés from my childhood. There was never a time when I had, had a real conversation with an Indian person to know any different. Although I do recall one Indian boy during my school years but I had never spoken to him, only seeing him sometimes in the playground.
Oh the excitement! A school disco! It was my last few weeks of intermediate school, which meant our last chance to be kids as the next year we were to join the cool teenagers or so I thought, at high school.
As twelve year olds, Louise and I had talked for weeks about this boy or that boy, would he ask us to dance? Mum had sewn an outfit for me to wear, a lavender sleeveless shirt with a matching skirt, when I did a twirl, the skirt lifted right up in a circle around my waist, it was choice! The night of the dance arrived, Louise and I were buzzing with excitement as we arrived together at the decorated school hall. The music was loud but as we gazed around, to our disappointment the glum-faced boys were sitting on one side of the room and the girls on the other. As we joined the solemn looking girls we realised no one was brave enough to make the first move, to venture across the dance floor to ask the other person to dance. Eventually with the teacher’s encouragement we did all get up but still, the girls stayed huddled dancing with the girls and the boys with the boys. Finally a boy managed to manoeuvre himself near enough to a girl to claim he was dancing with her. This gave way for everyone else to follow.
This was the same in society there was nothing wrong with another race, they weren’t sick or unapproachable - it was just having the courage to break down those barriers.