CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Hindi word for temple is mandir.
Kishore’s devotion was remarkable. I discovered love notes hidden in the strangest of places; in the pockets of my jacket, inside my handbag, in my car – on the mirror, the speedometer and in the glove box. They always began with, ‘To Julie, my precious jewel’ and contained endearing words of love. One particular note said:
To Julie my precious jewel,
I love you more than words can describe.
The sun provides warmth and light to each and every living thing on earth.
The earth can’t do without the sun, just as I can’t do
without you, my Julie jewel.
Another note made me realise Kishore felt his dream of finding the love he had seen in romantic movies had come true. He compared me to India’s national flower – the lotus and wrote loving words that in his eyes and in his heart I was more beautiful than the flower.
Feeling brave, we were daring enough to hold hands when walking down the street. We were surprised to see passer-by’s reactions. People would literally stop walking or talking to stand and stare at us.
*
I parked my sunshine yellow Datsun in front of a big old villa and Louise and I walked up the path towards the front porch. We were visiting two of our other old school friends, Michelle and Kerry who were flatting in the large house with two boys and one other girl. It was a grand old home with big rooms, polished wooden floors and two stained glass windows. I couldn’t understand why the owners of the house were renting it out, the history of the building alone would be enough for me to treat it with extreme TLC - tender loving care - like an object in a museum but I supposed the landlord needed the rent money.
The girls and their flatmates did not treat the house with TLC, every surface in the living room was covered in dust, it was as if someone had sprinkled talcum powder all over. Michelle made coffee and as we all sat on the cosy chairs - we were soon catching up on all of the gossip. Louise produced a packet of chocolate pineapple lumps from her bag and as we indulged in the chewy, chocolatey sweets, it wasn’t long before the conversation changed to what was actually on everyone’s mind – Kishore being my boyfriend.
Kerry, the boldest of the girls blurted out the question they were all too scared to ask -
“Are you pregnant Julie?”
“Ummm, no,” I replied trying to keep my tone under control.
“Then why are you still going out with him? Is he paying you?” this was Michelle, she quickly followed up with, “Have you checked his passport? He probably wants to marry you so he can stay in the country.”
I was infuriated, my face became bright red, if a raging bull was around it would have surely charged at me, how dare they ask me these questions?
Later in the afternoon, I dropped Louise home and made a bee-line for Kishore’s house. I told him about the remarks the girls had made, emphasising the last comment, not because I believed Michelle, I just wanted to see his reaction. Without a word Kishore went to his room and came back with his passport. Laying it on the table, he opened a page and showed me a permanent resident stamp clearly visible. Being a permanent resident was the first step in becoming a citizen. There was no need for him to marry anybody to stay in New Zealand, he already had residency.
These types of remarks seemed to be part of the territory of going out with an Indian man so I wasn’t really surprised when one of the girls at work had the audacity to make the comment, “Be wary Julie, if you marry an Indian, you marry the whole family.”
Indian people look after their elders. Usually the oldest son will take on this responsibility. The son and his wife and their children and his parents will all live together in the same house. If the family is wealthy, a house is sometimes built with three or four levels, with each level containing its own separate apartment so that each son, his wife and their children can have their own separate living quarters.
In India there is no such thing as rest homes or retirement villages. Kishore had never heard of this concept until he came to New Zealand. Being the eldest son of his family, it’s expected the responsibility of his parents welfare in their old age would fall upon him. Now he was living in his new country he knew one day he would have to deal with this situation, he knew he would eventually have to help his Mother and Father, he would think of the ‘how’ later.
He did know he would not need to worry about his sisters, once a daughter is married she usually becomes the responsibility of her in-laws family.
Kishore remembered a childhood fable his Grandma had told him to instill in small children the bond a family should have. That family is extremely important.
It went like this:
A Father has three adult sons. He is old and dying and the sons begin fighting over his possessions. He hears their bickering and calls them to his bedside. He tells each son to go to the forest to collect a bundle of sticks. The sons do as they’re told and soon return to their Father each with their own bundle. He then tells each son to take one stick from his bundle and try to break it. Each son does this easily, of course, breaking the stick without difficulty. He then tells the sons to put all of their bundles of sticks together in one pile. He asks the eldest son to tie the now large bundle together with twine. Once the sticks are tied, their Father tells each son in turn to try to break the whole big bundle. Each of them tries but of course they cant.
You see, said the Father, there is strength through unity, just like the sticks alone you’re weak and your bond can be broken. Bound together, like the sticks you are strong - you are unbreakable.
*
We were strolling together in the warm sun of Western Springs Park. Kishore held in his hands an empty picnic basket and blanket. We were heading back to my car after enjoying a picnic lunch in the sunshine. After eating we had stretched out on top of the blanket with the soft grass beneath us. Now, as we walked we were looking intently into each other’s eyes, oblivious of anyone or anything around us. Talking was not necessary as we were so much in love. Suddenly, a tooting noise from behind made us jump. A tram taking passengers through the park was about to run us over! Our romantic moment was forgotten as we quickly scrambled out of the way. As it chugged passed the passengers laughed and pointed at us.
Once we had recovered from our fright, we continued on our lovers stroll. I asked Kishore about something I had seen Indian people do often.
“Kishore, why do Indian people move their heads from side to side while talking?”
Kishore, without answering my question, replied with his own query, “Well Julie, firstly tell me why English people nod their head back and forth when they talk?"
We both chuckled as we realised it was each cultures way of saying ‘yes’ or ‘I agree with you.'
I also took this opportunity to ask something else I had been pondering.
“Kishore,” I said, “Why is it that so many Indians own dairies?”
He again chuckled a little, “I have been wondering when you were going to ask me that. Julie, it is really hard for some immigrants to find work, even if they are highly skilled.”
“But you found work easily,” I interrupted.
Kishore, ever the darling said, “That’s because I was meant to meet you, my love and my good fortune.”
“OK,” I said, feeling slightly flattered but still rolling my eyes a little, “What about everyone else?”
“Imagine you have just arrived in New Zealand. You try to find work with your degree or experience but cant. Maybe your qualifications aren’t recognised here or the paper work is too costly.”
“Yes,” I encouraged him “Go on.”
“It’s easier with immigration to have your own business. That’s why Indians come here and buy a dairy. Their Uncle or cousin might have done it and they will say, come over to New Zealand, I have started my own shop, I will help you to do the same."
Pondering this I nodded slightly, “I suppose also when people write back home it sounds like a big achievement to say they have their own shop.”
Kishore smiled, “Exactly! A shop sounds very auspicious and is a great accomplishment.”
We reached the car and holding up the basket and blanket Kishore murmured, “Julie, if you give me the car key, I’ll just put these in the dicky.”
“What?” I asked thinking I had misheard him.
“I’ll just put these in the dicky.”
Raising my eyebrows, I said “You can’t say that Kishore.”
“I can’t say what?”
“Dicky, you can’t say dicky, in English it means something else.”
“Really Julie, tell me, what does it mean in English?”
“It means, it means…” I fumbled to find the right explanation. “It means a body part that a boy has but a girl doesn’t.”
He cheekily looked at me - did he already know what a dicky was in English or was he teasing me?
I did want to ask if he was pulling my leg or if he really didn’t know but I didn’t say another word.