CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The Hindi word for princess is raajkumaari.
On a warm day in mid-December, with their suitcases packed, they arrived at the hub of Auckland Airport. As they stood waiting in line to check-in, Kishore had their passports and tickets clutched in his hand. He reflected on how much his life had changed since he had last been at the airport. He had arrived in New Zealand a single man with just twenty dollars in his wallet, looking forward to a new beginning and wondering what lay in store for him. Now, he smiled to himself, he had his lovely red headed fiancé at his side, ready for another chapter in his life to begin.
Glancing at Julie he saw her take a tissue out of her handbag and wipe her eyes. She tried her best to smile at him although the tears were flowing - taking her hand he gave it a reassuring squeeze.
Her family were waiting to say good-bye. He looked over at them and as he did he recalled the conversation he’d had with his future Mother-in-law a few days back.
He had been visiting Julie at her house when Helen called him from the kitchen to help make tea. This had never happened before and he wondered what the problem was. While pouring hot water into cups she said, “Kishore, we have grown to love you as part of our family."
He let out the breath he didn’t realise he had been holding, this is not so bad he thought, it all seemed okay.
Helen continued, “You’re taking my daughter away, further than anyone in my family has ever been.”
Kishore tried to speak, “Yes, I know, I can assure…”
Helen glanced up from the cups and held out her hand to stop him, staring straight into his eyes she spoke quickly, “You had better look after Julie and bring her back to us safely.” She quickly turned her face away holding back tears that threatened as she put down the jug. Turning back to him she said, “We have never had a Christmas without her, she is my baby Kishore and I trust you with her.”
Kishore knew he had been warned. He assured Helen he loved Julie more than his own life and that he would bring her back safe and sound. He consoled her, telling her Julie was in good hands.
Following long and tearful goodbyes at the airport Kishore and Julie boarded the plane for their long flight to India.
*
After a marathon journey, we eventually arrived at Indira Gandhi Airport, New Delhi, India. Walking through the terminal with wrinkled clothes and feeling bewildered from the long trip, we were already an attraction. I felt completely overwhelmed. The amount of people looking at us as we strode towards immigration was just, well weird. My fingers clutched firmly onto the back of Kishore’s jacket, there was no way I was going to lose him. My first surprise, which would be one of many throughout this entire journey, was the security officers with their commanding stance and threatening looks. Across the front of their bodies, clutched in their hands, was a rifle. I had never in my life seen a person holding a real gun before, a weapon that could literally kill a person. I wasn’t in the peaceful haven of New Zealand now - this country was the complete opposite.
We reached the immigration officer but before Kishore could hand over our passports the officer glared at Kishore, then at me, then back to Kishore.
“Who is she?” he asked, jabbing his pen in my direction.
“My fiancé,” Kishore proudly announced.
The officer snorted then chuckled, “What is wrong with the girls in this country, couldn’t you find one here?”
Kishore smiled, “No,” he replied, then turned his head to look into my eyes, “No, there is nothing wrong with the girls in this country but none of them are my Julie.”
The officer gave us the once over again then took our passports and scrutinised them thoroughly, finally bringing down the rubber stamp on the page with a thud. After retrieving our luggage we ventured outside. I rubbed my eyes - I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. The winter air was hazy and dusty, the street was filled with masses of people and the noise! Taxis were everywhere in a disorderly fashion, it seemed to me there was no division between the right and left side of the road. Cars were all moving together at once here, there and everywhere, with no order. People were walking all over the road while cars drove around them. I had heard of the term ‘culture shock,’ I was amazed and shocked.
Four taxi drivers rushed towards us, “Sir, Madam this way,” they chorused. Like vultures, they all wanted a piece of the action. Kishore brushed them aside and headed straight towards a taxi of his choosing. He asked the driver the cost to Sundar Garden, Block B, his parents address. Communities in Delhi are broken up into sections with each section divided into areas, which made it a lot easier, geographically, to find your way around. I soon learnt it was best to decide the tariff with the driver before starting on a journey. Once Kishore and the driver decided on the fare and our luggage was loaded into the boot, we both sat in the back and the one-hour trip to Kishore’s family home began.
I stared wide-eyed out of the taxi window at the huge population of people flocking the streets, poverty was clearly evident and pollution was apparent. Even here on the open road traffic had no order. Cars drove madly in front and around each other. Drivers continuously had their hand on their car horns sending out their impatient message, 'let me through.’ What was the point of all that tooting? It wasn’t going to make the car get through the traffic any faster.
My jaw dropped as I saw tan-biscuit coloured cows roaming along the road amongst the traffic, they even sat on the road but surprisingly they were never hit. They were not the plump black and white cows we had back in New Zealand but were abundantly skinny with their shoulder bones sticking out.
Through the neglect and disrepair I saw the rich history of India from the ornate architectural designs of the buildings. After all, I had been told India was once the wealthiest country in the world, teeming with magnificent gold and jewels.
Our taxi mingled and danced with the traffic manoeuvring amongst the bicycles, motorbikes, trucks, auto-rickshaws and bicycle-rickshaws. My eyes nearly popped out of my head when I saw a whole family – a man, a child and a woman holding a baby, on one motorbike. The whole family! I didn’t see this once or twice, I saw it many times. Even with its big load the motorbike still managed to weave in and out and dart around the other traffic. It scared me in case the people fell off as none of them wore helmets but somehow the whole family held on swaying with the bike as it weaved.
As the taxi stopped at traffic lights, I felt many eyes upon me.
The people sitting in the neighbouring cars and auto-rickshaws were openly staring straight at me as was the crowd gathered on the footpath waiting to cross the road.
Rarely do people in India stand alone, they always gather in groups and due to the countries huge population crowds are generally in a cluster of ten or more.
They were looking intently through our taxi window. I tried to ignore them and keep my eyes forward - it was so foreign to me. I was now the odd one out, not Kishore. Now I was the minority not the majority, I was in Kishore’s domain. Some of the people had possibly never seen an English woman before and it was most unlikely they had never seen an English woman with flaming red hair and freckles. Even more strange was an English woman with red hair and freckles sitting next to an Indian man. This phenomenon was probably as rare as a bolt of lightning hitting the same place twice.
As the lights changed to green, I wondered if Kishore’s family and friends would ask the same questions I had been asked. Would they think I was not genuine, that I had some devious reason to be with Kishore? Maybe, I pondered, would Kishore’s family say to him, ‘An English girl? You are going to marry an English girl?’
Would his friends declare, ‘Be careful, Kishore, Julie might claim you kidnapped her and try to extort money from your family.’ But, I was sure the two key questions would be, ‘Do you want to marry her to get residency in New Zealand?’ and the age old, ‘Is she pregnant?’
The same questions regarding the validity of our love that I had experienced would possibly be the same questions Kishore would be asked. I hadn’t looked at it in that light before.
Why did there have to be an ulterior motive, why was the difference in our race such a big deal? Didn’t anyone believe in true love anymore?
I knew Kishore loved me dearly but really me? Indian women were so attractive with their long silky black hair, dark features and stunning eyes. I knew I certainly wasn’t beautiful. Over the time we had been together I had asked Kishore if he was sure he wanted to be with me. He had replied, I was just being silly, he loved me because to him I was different, really different to the women he was surrounded by while growing up. He insisted he only wanted to be with me and only me forever. He persisted in saying I was beautiful to him and that he was not interested in any other woman. In fact, he had gone so far as to say that if anything ever happened to me he would remain alone for the rest of his life. He said he had given his heart to me and would not give it to another.
While I was deep in my thoughts Kishore had slipped easily back to his native tongue and was chatting to the driver in Hindi. I realised, as I adjusted myself in my seat that these endearing statements of love Kishore had made scared me. To be put on a pedestal like that, would I live up to his expectations? My whole life stretched before me, could I really spend it all with this man? True, I loved him just as dearly but, a lifetime? Adjusting to his culture and his ways had so far been a challenge and now I was here in India I knew I was to face many more challenges.
Sure, we were ultimately going to live in New Zealand but still could I possibly have children with him and maybe spend the next fifty or sixty years of my life with him? At unguarded moments like this, these thoughts churned through my mind. I forced myself to wipe them away with an imaginary hand otherwise I believed I’d go mad.
Now as I listened to him chatting to the driver, I could hear he was happy, the tone of his voice was one of excitement, he was gushing with delight. My doubtful thoughts began to disappear. I felt that same quick bubble of love in my heart I always felt when I truly let myself surrender to my own feelings. Staring at the side of his head, I tried to cast my fears aside as I realised my love for him was possibly even deeper now as I was beginning to see Kishore, as Kishore, here in his own country. At that moment he must have felt my eyes upon him, he glanced at me and smiled. An excited smile, after all he was nearly home. He was about to see his Mother and Father, his family. He had missed them so much and eagerly urged the driver to go faster.
As the taxi stopped at the next set of traffic lights a disheveled, wild-eyed woman holding a baby in her arms approached our car. She was dressed in a stained purple sari and her hair was pulled back in a tousled bun. Her baby was wearing no clothes except for a cloth nappy, his eyes were open, they were big, innocent and as black as night.
The beggar headed straight towards my window, without hesitation Kishore told me to ignore her.
“Madam,” she called through the closed window, “Madam.” I couldn’t help myself, I turned towards her and her baby and my heart lurched. I felt so sorry for them but I did as Kishore requested and quickly looked away. It was too late, the beggar knew she had my attention and hopefully my sympathy. Her fingernails scratched the window, “Madam,” she called again, “You have a good life, look at me, I am poor, I have nothing, my baby is hungry.” Kishore again told me to ignore her, it is a business he said they are paid to beg. If we give in, the cycle will continue and they will continue to beg. They steal babies to use as bait and are taught just the right words to use in English to get your sympathy.
The beggar distracted me from Kishore, “Please madam, just a few coins, just a few, if you don’t give me anything I will come into your dreams at night. You will remember me in your nightmares.”
Thankfully the lights went from red to green with Kishore urging the taxi driver, “Jaldi, jaldi,” (quickly, quickly). As we stopped at the next lights begging children not older than ten did a little dance. Then a man approached the car selling colourful, twirling windmills, Kishore said this wasn’t so bad as this was his genuine business. I began to understand just how much begging could be a profession.
As our trip progressed, I noticed shelters set up along the barriers between the lanes of traffic on the road. Large pieces of cloth had been hung as make-shift tents and people’s belongings were scattered around the area. At one set of lights a family were gathered around a fire in front of their tent. These homeless people had set up their camps next to the traffic lights so they were up and ready to beg as soon as the lights flicked to red.
Kishore explained to me India had no social welfare system what-so-ever. There was no help for the unemployed, elderly, homeless, widows, widowers or single Mothers - yes out of wedlock pregnancies did occasionally happen. People in need were totally dependent on other family members to help them and if there were no family members they resorted to begging.
As the taxi ambled towards our destination, I again pondered my situation. Had I really left my veterinary nursing career solely to meet Kishore? Was this my destiny? Seeing first-hand the population explosion here in Delhi, I wondered just how Kishore and I had found each other. Millions and millions of people live in India. How did this man sitting next to me find me on the other side of the world?
This trip was not just a trip to meet Kishore’s family, I wanted to see for myself if marrying him, an Indian man, was really what I wanted. It was a test of my commitment to him. Wearily, I leant my head against the back of the seat and closed my eyes. I needed a few moments to think about the thoughts swirling like a whirlpool around in my head. The time ahead was going to be immensely busy.