CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The Hindi word for surprise is aashcharya.
Kishore was in his element because with me being there his homecoming had been truly special. Last night he had also enjoyed bonding time with his Dad and Sunil. They asked him about his work, how much did he earn? What is the average wage of workers in New Zealand? His Dad asked about me, what were my family like? What did my Father do for a living? So many questions!
After breakfast the next morning Kishore took me downstairs to visit the neighbours who lived directly below his family. He’d talked many times about them and was eager for me to meet them. They were a Christian-Indian family because a Christian missionary had been responsible for their conversion. Upon entering their lovely home the first thing to catch my eye was a statue of Jesus on the cross hanging on the wall, it wasn’t hard to miss as it hung directly opposite the front door. It was unusual to see this in India, seeing that it was, to me, so very English but it was also kind of reassuring.
We entered the sitting room and Kishore introduced me to Mr Roberts who had a Bible open on his lap. He had adopted a Christian name when changing his religion and he and Mrs Roberts had been married in a traditional church.
Next to him, perched on a small table, looking out of place was a little green tinsel Christmas tree, plastic angels and snowmen hung from its branches.
Mrs Roberts entered the room carrying teacups and fruit cake, she had gone to a lot of trouble to have this cake made just for me. As Indian kitchens don’t have an oven and food is usually cooked on top of gas cookers in pots or frying pans, baking is just not done. I was sure Mrs Roberts wouldn’t have bought this cake ready-made. It was most likely she would have made the mixture herself and taken it somewhere that had an oven to have it baked.
Mr and Mrs Roberts were pleased to meet me and as they enthused about Christianity, Mr Roberts wanted to know which religion I followed. I quickly took a bite of cake mumbling something about being Anglican, somehow feeling ashamed to admit that I didn’t attend any church.
Finishing our tea we bid farewell to the Roberts.
As we were leaving Kishore waved to the Singhs, they lived on the other side of the set of flats. He explained to me the Singhs were Sikh’s, you could tell because they wore turbans. After saying Namaste we promised to come for a cup of tea one day soon.
As it was our first day in Delhi, we were heading to his temple, Kishore wanted our blessings to be given and received. We walked a little way from Sundar Garden and emerged onto the main road where traffic flowed fast, Kishore hailed an auto-rickshaw. This is the most popular form of transport in Delhi – a three-wheeled motorised bike with a roof, under which can be seated two or three passengers. Their familiar paintwork of a yellow top and green bottom can be seen all over the city as they weave in and out of traffic faster than anything else except a motorbike.
Kishore gave the driver directions as we climbed into the back seat. We joined the fast moving traffic and the auto-rickshaw flowed with it. Weaving in and out of the hustle and bustle, moving and swaying with the other cars was scary but exhilarating. I held on - it was an effort not to slide around as the contraption had no seatbelts. With the throng and noise of the other cars around us, the ride was an adventure, I giggled as I felt like I was on a roller-coaster.
Twenty minutes later we arrived at the local market where there was a sea of people moving like a great ocean, each one of them intent on their own agenda.
Leading me through the crowd we briefly stopped at a man selling fruit and vegetables from his cart. For a few rupees Kishore bought half a dozen apples and bananas, which the vendor put into a plastic bag. Walking a short distance we were soon at an unassuming building, which was to my surprise, the temple. There was no steeple or anything churchy to identify it was a place of worship, nothing that made it stand out to say it was a house of faith. The temple was just another building in the market place, until you stepped inside.
Many people were gathered outside the temple. As we came nearer I could smell a strong aroma of incense coming from beyond the doors. We approached the entrance with Kishore telling me to remove my shoes. There was a huge mound of shoes piled around the doorway, how could anyone know how to find their shoes amongst all that? It was then I noticed buried amid the mound, a little old woman, she seemed to be sorting the shoes. Kishore said something to her and gave her a coin. He assured me our shoes would be safe as we entered the building.
He led me down winding corridors, still clutching his bag of fruit, until we emerged into a room where a large statue of one of the Hindu gods towered over us. This particular god was ‘Hunaman’ a deity with the body of a man and the face of a monkey. Whoever prayed to this god hoped to attain strength, wisdom, peace of mind and knowledge. Hunaman was also asked to cure illnesses and give an individual the courage to fight illness.
Before arriving in New Zealand Kishore, as a young adult, felt somewhat lost. Although he was sure his destiny was to immigrate to New Zealand he wondered if it was the right thing to do. He decided to seek the advice of an elder who told him to choose Hunaman to worship. When he did this, Kishore felt a connection with this god. He felt at peace and his direction in life became clearer to him.
I felt pleased he had brought me here to share in his belief, to share a piece of himself that meant so much. I recalled the day he had shown me his little temple in the drawer in his bedroom. To be invited to become a part of his devotion was a great honour. Knowing we were coming here this morning, I had wondered what to pray for, now I knew, I would pray for myself and Kishore to live in love and happiness.
Kishore presented his offering of fruit by taking the apples and bananas out of the bag and laying them at Hunuman’s feet. He knelt in front of the statue and gestured for me to do the same. He closed his eyes and put his palms together in front of his heart. I prayed for the strength of our love.
Presently he stood up and took a few moments to gather his thoughts.
I opened my eyes and as we left the room and wound our way back through the corridors, I noticed all of the walls were painted white. Glancing through some of the open doors I saw other statues of different deities, some were alone while others had people kneeling in front of them. Each room in this temple seemed to be dedicated to a different god, which was a surprise to me having only ever been in a church with one large hall for the congregation to sit and pray. We stopped at the open door of one room, which was devoted to Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth, love and light. She had a human form with a delicate smile but had four outstretched arms. Her beautiful statue seemed to behold the presence of the room and many flowers were visibly scattered around her.
A haze of incense smoke engulfed us as we headed back towards the main door, the musky fragrance seemed to almost put me in a trance. To be honest, while in the temple, I did feel a sense of ‘something greater than me’ a feeling you get when entering any holy place. Or maybe the effect of the overpowering smell of incense had gone straight to my head.
Kishore stopped at a table by the door on top of which sat a big bowl.
“Oh Julie, prasad, we must have some of this.”
“What is it?”
“Well, it is a pudding called halwa – made with semolina and sugar.” He peered intently into the bowl, “This one looks like it has raisins in it as well."
“But didn't you just say it was prasad?” I questioned.
“It is both,” he grinned, “Halwa is the name of this particular pudding. The way it has been left here means it is a prayer offering or prasad. Another person who came here to pray would have left the bowl as an offering to a god and in return the priests give it as a donation to other devotees, the apples and bananas we just gave were our prasad.”
Kishore told me to put my hands out, facing up, on top of each other and he placed a teaspoon of hawla into my palm. As instructed I ate it in one mouthful straight from my hand, he followed suit.
We walked out of the door and claimed our shoes from the attendant. The old lady knew exactly where they were and gave them back to Kishore with a toothless smile.
Taking our life into our hands we zigzagged across the busy road, narrowly missing being run over by the hectic traffic. Walking a few minutes through the crowded, busy streets we soon reached Kishore’s barber. He had deliberately left his prickly face unshaven that morning as he was eager to let his barber tend to this task as well as trim his hair.
We entered the crowded little shop with the barber recognizing Kishore instantly and the two men enthusiastically shook hands. I was introduced to Mr Sakijaan and was told he was a third generation barber at this same shop. Mr Sakijaan was a tall man with a kind face but my eyes were directly attracted to his ears, which stood out from the sides of his head like the wing mirrors of a car. His customer’s choice of fiancé didn’t seem to bother him as he showed me a seat so I could sit and watch. A faint smell of old spice titillated my nostrils as I watched Kishore placing himself in the barber chair. As I made myself comfortable in the vinyl seat I surveyed the cramped shop, it seemed to be stuck in time. Faded posters were taped on the walls advertising lifebuoy soap, limca fizzy drink and golden eagle beer.
I watched, captivated as Mr Sakijaan with the skill of a true professional, expertly trimmed Kishore’s hair, not forgetting his nose and ear hair. Next he lathered Kishore’s face and shaved him with an old fashioned cut-throat blade. I cringed, scared he would cut Kishore but Mr Sakijaan skillfully sliced through the white foam like a knife through butter. The final touch was oil, which he applied to Kishore’s hair while giving his head a vigorous massage.
All of this for just five rupees, the whole process was mesmerizing.
Our next stop was the famous New Delhi shopping district, Connaught Place which was lined with trendy upmarket shops. There were stylish men’s and women’s outlet stores as well as banks, travel agencies, gift shops along with many cafes and restaurants. The ambience reminded me of Queen Street back in Auckland. People were dressed up for a day out shopping topped with a warm glow of anticipation as they were drawn into the allure of wandering past the many items on display.
As we walked around I noticed several of the concrete walls of the buildings were stained an orange colour. Kishore explained that men who like to chew the Paan or Beetel leaf, which could be bought from roadside sellers, caused this. The leaf is wrapped around a spice or herb and quite often it contains nicotine as an additive. While chewing and chewing the juicy Paan leaf a lot of orange liquid is created in the mouth. As this liquid is not to be swallowed it is spat out. Many men over a long period of time spitting a lot of Paan liquid resulted in the orange staining on the walls. Kishore said he had tried Paan only once and while chewing he found it so hot he could feel the back of this throat burning. The nicotine inside Paan was remarkably strong, as it was not diluted as it would be in a cigarette. He never tried Paan again. As I knew of Kishore’s experience with chillies I realised Paan would be extremely hot.
Before heading back to Sundar Garden we stopped at a roadside vendor who had a cart situated on the edge of Connaught Place. He made fresh juice, similar to a ‘juice bar’ back home. I was a little bit apprehensive as I noticed the man rinsing used glasses in a bucket of murky water, then wiping them on a dusty cloth before adding them to the other glasses ready for use. Kishore encouraged me to try so despite my unease I did. I winced as the man took two glasses from the stack while asking Kishore which flavour we wanted. He blended the fresh fruit of Kishore’s choosing in front of us in a little mixing machine. Grinning broadly, the man made a dramatic performance of pouring the juice from a great height into the two glasses. The delicious fresh fruit juice gave a taste that was divine, fruity and refreshing with a smidge of zest due to the spices added in the mixture.