CHAPTER SIX
The Hindi word for child is bacho.
There were two things in his life Kishore felt would be his destiny: firstly, he would settle overseas - secondly he would find an English girl to become his wife.
Kishore retained happy and challenging memories from his childhood:
His favourite childhood toy was a little red tricycle, how he loved that bike! He enjoyed pedaling it around on the street below his house, pretending he was a truck driver, he loaded the little tray at the back with bricks then rode around the street delivering them.
He once found a hole in the ground filled with water from rain the previous day and decided this would be his pot full of dahl (cooked lentil soup). Just like he had seen his Mother do, he found a stick and stirred the dahl around in the ‘pot.'
About ten minutes from their house was a local sports ground where Kishore and his friends played cricket. The local boys enjoyed a game in the afternoon, after school, using sticks as wickets. One of the boys owned a bat and ball so he was in charge as without him there would be no game. It was imperative as he played that Kishore kept one eye on the game and one on the road, to keep a lookout for his Father, knowing full well if he saw his son playing cricket he would give him a telling off. His Father was not harsh - just stern as he felt his boy should be studying. India’s population was huge and the only way for a person to better himself was to get an education and a degree. Sometimes Kishore saw his Dad on his walk home out of the corner of his eye - he would abandon his game and run like the wind in order to beat him home. He’d race as fast as his legs could carry him along a shorter route he knew of. Up the outside stairs and into the house he rushed, breathing in deeply, he threw himself down on a seat at the table and picked up his book in an effort to look studious. As his Dad walked in the door, Kishore glanced up from his book, smiled and said hello.
As a teenager he hung out with his friends in the market place. One day, one of his friends noticed a pretty girl coming out of a shop alone. Feeling bold, or perhaps showing off in front of his friends the boy shouted out to the girl, “Hi there, whaddaya doing?" This kind of bold remark was not acceptable for an Indian boy and before he reached home his Father was already there to scold him, angry with his son for being so blatant in public and bringing shame to the family. The boy was rather puzzled, how did his Father know what he’d been up to? Then he realised, the gossip network. Someone must have seen him then told someone else, who told someone else and so it went on until his misdemeanor, at lighting speed reached the ears of his Father.
The burning heat of the New Zealand sun compares to the sweltering hot summers in India called the ‘dry season,’ a hot hanging heat no one can escape from. The kind of intense heat that makes a person continuously perspire, even the most well dressed, meticulously maintained lady can have sweat dripping down her face with wet marks on her underarms and back. The air is hot to breathe - men and women always carry a handkerchief to mop their foreheads to stop sweat from constantly dripping in their eyes. A man or woman cannot cool down by putting on a pair of shorts, they’re considered a young boys garment and are just not part of the clothing attire.
Kishore’s Mother washed the family’s clothing by hand and after ringing out each item she would place it in a bucket. By the time she was ready to hang them on the washing line they were already almost dry, due to the intense heat. On these stifling days she made lassi, yoghurt that was whipped with a little sugar added, similar to a smoothie, a delightfully cool and refreshing drink. Air conditioning at that time was thought of as a luxury, the heat was unavoidable in most households. It was just a thing to have to put up with, a long cool glass of water being extremely refreshing to a dry parched throat.
Just as hot were the nights. It was hard to find refuge from it. After a long, sticky, almost lethargic day, the family was grateful for the arrival of evening when the air became a little cooler. Kishore’s family carried their bed cots up onto the roof-top balcony. The beds had a frame and legs of metal but they did not contain mattresses, the base was woven with jute. This was quite comfortable and the family would sleep happily under the stars in the cool night air. Kishore covered himself with a light sheet to escape the bite of the mosquitoes and would eventually fall into a slumber in the early hours when it finally cooled down enough to be able to sleep.
Kishore loved to go to the cinema with his friends, especially in the summer when the air conditioning was on inside the theatre. The boys would meet on a Saturday morning and head off into town by bus. The buses were always overly packed with people - in fact men could be seen hanging off the sides of buses. Kishore and his friends would try to sneak onto the bus without being seen by the conductor to avoid paying. This was achieved on most occasions, although once or twice they were thrown off after being caught. Once the group of friends arrived at the theatre they were pleased to get inside out of the heat. People bought tickets just to sit for a few hours to cool down. Kishore found great pleasure in watching the scenery from other countries and escaping into another world while being engrossed in the plot.
Electricity in Delhi is spasmodic and the wiring from house to house is haphazard to say the least. Power cuts are frequent but this is the way it always has been. While growing up, Kishore’s family did not own a television. The Singh’s who lived downstairs were the first family in Kishore’s apartment block to get one and when movies were shown, three sets of families would crowd into the Singh’s family living room in eager anticipation. He thought it was like having your own movie theatre next door. Everyone sat anywhere, furniture or floor, to admire and marvel at the wonders of television. Invariably, as soon as everyone was settled and eager for the movie to begin, the power would go off – to the instantaneous groans of everyone there. The ladies would get up to prepare cups of tea and snacks. Because of the unreliability of the power supply, most Indian kitchens rely on gas. Tea is made in a pot on the gas element: milk is the base with spices and sugar added. When the tea is ready it’s poured into a teapot that already contains the tea leaves, once brewed, the delicious tea is poured into cups.
The children would sit in front of the TV for a few minutes hopeful the power would return, eventually losing interest they would drift off to play when – suddenly – the power would return. Shouts of, “It is on, it is on, come back quickly,” could be heard throughout the house, everybody rushed back and sat in front of the screen. It didn’t matter that the movie had already begun.
But all of these recollections of Kishore’s childhood had a dark cloud hanging over them. These memories were from the time when he actually came to live with his family, before then he lived somewhere else.