CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The Hindi word for holiday is chhutti.
My thoughts were brought rushing back to the present as Kishore exclaimed, “Look Julie," he pointed out of the window, “There is my old school, we are not far from my home now.” The car whizzed past a nondescript building. My heart beat faster, reality had hit me, I was about to meet Kishore’s parents. I was extremely nervous, my palms were all sweaty but there was a little thrill of excitement coursing through my veins.
The taxi began to slow suddenly as there were many people gathered in his street. Neighbours and family members heard Kishore was coming home with his English bride-to-be. It was a big event. How did they know the taxi would be arriving right at this moment? Or, had these people been waiting here all day? I thought with a chuckle that this was what it must be like to be a celebrity surrounded by paparazzi – minus the flashing of cameras in my eyes. If I wasn’t feeling so apprehensive I would have jokingly pulled a pen from my handbag ready to sign autographs.
Indian communities are all very close-knit - neighbours have their ways and means of finding out all the gossip and what is going on in people’s lives, news travels really fast. If there was an event such as an engagement, marriage, birth or death there was no need to use the telephone, just tell one person, they will tell someone else, who will tell someone else and so on until the entire neighbourhood is informed.
The car slowly ground to a halt like a marathon runner after a long race. On my left I saw a set of concrete flats and to my right was a garden reserve.
A swarm of people surrounded the car. Kishore managed to open the door and climb out, he eagerly pushed his way through the crowd towards a middle-aged woman. He hugged her then the man standing next to her. From the photos I had seen, I knew of course these two people were Kishore’s Mum and Dad. Roopa wore a pretty, petunia pink sari and her hair was fastened in a tight bun. Chandra wore a navy blue suit, I could see the family resemblance, Kishore’s Father was an older version of himself.
I kind of stupidly sat in the car, wondering whether I should try to get out or wait for him.
As Kishore took hold of his parents hands and pulled them towards the taxi, his smile was huge, spread across his face like the swipe of a paintbrush.
I had by now decided to emerge by myself. I got out of the car and was just about to shut the door behind me when Kishore and his parents arrived.
“This is Julie,” he proudly announced with a sweep of his hand towards me. With palms together Kishore’s Mother and Father stood before me and simultaneously said, “Namaste beti” (daughter).
I copied their gesture and replied, “Namaste Daddyji, Namaste Mummyji.” I then embraced his parents. I had been told never to call Kishore’s parents by their first names. This was unacceptable in Indian culture and anyway I wouldn’t feel comfortable doing it. In fact I would have felt better calling them Mr and Mrs Patel but Kishore had gently coaxed me to call them Mummyji and Daddyji (the ji is added when addressing people especially elders as a sign of respect).
Polite salutations and introductions were made with Kishore’s younger brother and sisters and soon everyone in his family were hugging us while chattering and laughing all at the same time. The eyes of the crowd were upon us especially me. Finally, after Kishore and his brother had retrieved the suitcases from the boot of the taxi we all attempted to make our way into the family home. As we pushed our way through the crowd, Kishore and I said many hellos to people I had never met before. Eventually we arrived at the lower floor of the block of flats, his parents led the way up the stairs. My new ‘sisters’ Ranjini and Saras each took hold of one of my hands and we followed behind. Kishore and Sunil carried the suitcases and brought up the rear.
The pictures I had seen of the family were dull in comparison to seeing them in person, I was fascinated. Ranjini and Saras who had been younger in the photos were now seventeen and nineteen years old and were growing into gorgeous young ladies. They both wore modern clothes, casual but respectable, jeans and t-shirts and had caramel skin like Kishore's. As New Delhi in the north of India the skin colour is lighter than in the south. Ranjini’s black, shiny hair was hanging loose while Saras had hers tied up in a high pony tail.
Upon reaching the top of the stairs we all turned right and entered the family home. The stairs had no lighting and my eyes took a moment to adjust. The walls were concrete and the house smelled garlicky although my first impression was that it appeared so small for six people - five without Kishore. In front of me was the main sitting area. To my right was the kitchen with an array of bowls, pots and utensils covering the bench and beyond the kitchen I could see the glimmer of a bathroom. To the left in the corner of the sitting room was a closed door. I knew this was the one and only bedroom Kishore had told me about.
Ranjini and Saras led me into the clean and tidy sitting room itself and offered me a seat on the couch. As I sat it felt to be made of vinyl but I could not really tell as most of the furniture was draped in cotton lilac throws. Looking around I noticed prints on the walls of various Indian gods. Only one picture was different to the others and that was of a pretty mountainous landscape. As I scanned the room my eyes fell to the floor, the majority of the sitting area was covered in a large mat of tones of light and dark blue. I knew this type of mat was made of cotton and called a durrie. Kishore and Sunil emerged from the stairwell, they dropped the suitcases and Kishore joined me on the couch.
The girls appeared from the kitchen carrying three plates of snacks that I would soon become familiar with. Saras placed on the coffee table a plate laden with jalebis, ladoos and burfis. Ranjini followed suit, one of her plates held two small bowls, both containing salty snacks, one being bhuja and the other matri. Her other plate held pinnis, which I later learnt was Kishore’s Mother’s homemade speciality sweet, treat.
Offering of food was not be refused in India, in fact, it was considered an insult if you did. Over the next few days, Kishore and I were to visit many friends and relatives. I soon learnt to take only small amounts of their delicious offerings and eat slowly, in this way I would not offend anyone or feel full. Ranjini emerged again from the kitchen, this time she placed a cup of tea in my hand. As I glanced at her, she smiled ‘please drink’ she offered encouragingly.
English was taught at school as part of the curriculum so I knew speaking to the family was not going to be a problem. Kishore’s Mother was the only person who had a limited understanding of the English language, coming from a generation when girls were only taught the basics at school, enough so they could just read and write in their own language. A time when it was understood that girls would only ever become housewives and Mothers, thankfully these times and attitudes have changed.
Taking a sip of the tea, I found the taste rich, milky, sweet and a little bit spicy. As I drank I tried to take in all that was going on around me. The house felt welcoming, simple and comfortable.
Once everyone was seated and settled with a cup of tea in their hand, it was time to hear all of the latest news. The questions came in quick succession, with everyone speaking in a mix of English and Hindi. Kishore translated any Hindi words I didn’t understand to keep me in the loop. How were Aunty and Uncle doing? His Father asked. How was Kishore’s work? Some of the questions were directed at me. How was I feeling? Was I tired? How was the plane journey? What did I think of India so far? Feeling a bit overwhelmed I only managed to reply to the questions with yes or no answers.
Kishore produced two photograph albums from his travel bag to show his family that the relatives in New Zealand were fine. There were also photos of my family, Kishore’s work colleagues and scenic pictures of Auckland with the stunning beaches and parks we had visited.
Kishore then opened his suitcase to give his family the gifts he had brought with him; soap, toothpaste, toothbrushes, teabags, jam, packets of biscuits and cartons of long life milk. Of course these things were available in India but they were not the same, they had a different smell and packaging and coming from overseas made them more exciting. He watched proudly as his family exclaimed over the items. He had always dreamt of being the person bearing gifts, just as his Aunt and Uncle had done when he was a child.
After a long and exhausting day I retired for the night with Mummyji, Ranjini and Saras in one of the four bed cots that were set up in the sitting room. Before sleeping us girls chatted, I felt at ease with them and found this a nice way to get to know them better, in fact, these girly talks were to become a nightly ritual the whole time I was in India. Ranjini and Saras were young women, reaching an age when they were thinking of getting married themselves. It was an unwritten rule that each sibling can only get married consecutively from oldest to youngest. We discussed this as they were keen to start their marriage preparations after Kishore then Sunil were married. Ranjini and Saras giggled shyly as they asked their many questions about Kishore being first my boyfriend and now my fiancé. Did we go out alone? Did we hold hands? What did my parents think of our relationship?
Saras then asked me if she could touch my freckles. I smiled and nodded. Each sister in turn softly touched my face in wonder. Of course they had seen freckles before, just not so many. They asked me about life in New Zealand, they knew what Kishore had told them but they wanted to know from a female perspective. Could I wear short skirts? Make-up? Could anybody have a boyfriend? India was changing but New Zealand was more advanced with women modern in their ways. It was common for young women in New Zealand to study in order to become doctors, lawyers, judges, psychiatrists, anesthetists or dentists. I encouraged Ranjini and Saras to be courageous and to study hard, that girls could do anything they wanted, to reach for the stars. Most important of all was to be respected as females and know their rights.
As I was the youngest, the baby of my family I had always been referred to as the ‘little sister.’ No one came to me for advice and nobody looked up to me. Here, I was the oldest girl and my two ‘sisters’ were asking me for advice. It felt good to be treated this way, I felt important. I was now almost twenty-one, the same age as Sunil but regardless of my age, I was engaged to the oldest son of the family and automatically gained respect as the eldest sister-in-law.
Kishore, Sunil and their Father slept in the one bedroom of the house that was used as a study during the day. As with the girls small cots were set up at night for sleeping which were stowed away in the daytime, no one had a bedroom to call their own.
As I drifted off to sleep, I remembered a comforting sound from my childhood, the whoosh-whoosh, hiss-hiss, noise of Mum's iron as it swished across the ironing board. She would stay up late into the night to finish pressing the clothes she had been given from neighbours, to earn a little extra income. It was a reassuring memory and the thought of it soothed me.
My family was not wealthy but we were lucky and were secure. Dad worked hard and Mum was a full time Mother as was Kishore’s Mother.
My family owned a car, T.V, washing machine, fridge and had plenty of hot water straight from the tap. When we were little I had shared a room with Sarah but I now had that room to myself. It contained all of my treasures, my bed with its rosy pink coverlet, a small bookshelf stacked tidily with my favourite childhood books: the Narnia collection, Little House on the Prairie and the Famous Five Mysteries.
I also had a beautiful, hand-carved wooden dressing table, which held a large mirror. Pride of place on top of the dresser was my jewellery box, which contained an assortment of necklaces, bangles, earrings and rings. Most were junk jewellery, even so, I had a choice every day of just which item to wear. Posters adorned my bedroom walls, one was of The Smurfs and another of the spunky actor Erik Estrada from the TV programme Chips. But my favourite poster was of a picture of a red rose with a quote:
‘don’t hurry,
don’t worry and
don’t forget to smell the flowers’
I thought of all of the birthdays, Christmases even Easters throughout my whole life and the gifts I’d received. Easter meant egg hunts and indulging in delicious, milky chocolate treats. But, Christmas was the day I waited for the whole year, the day that I woke early and ran to the lounge room to find the bottom of the tree bulging with presents. For Christmas lunch the family gathered around the table and in a festive mood we would feast on roast lamb, ham, chicken, vegetables and for dessert jelly, pavlova and strawberries - the festive season meant the arrival of strawberries - plump, sweet and juicy they’re always ripe and readily available and are an anticipated summer treat.
All of these things I was grateful for but now I felt spoilt.
Compared to Kishore’s family I had so much.