CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The Hindi word for cook is pakana.
It was one week since we had arrived, a Saturday, in fact it was Christmas day. To my surprise I did not miss the usual celebrations, to be honest, I almost forgot it was what had always been for me one of the most exciting days of the year.
Ranjini and Saras were particularly excited this morning as the three of us were planning to go to the mall, they were glad not to have to rush to get ready for school.
As I was preparing for my shower I was urging the water on a pot on the stove to hurry up and boil, we were keen to get ready quickly so we could be on our way.
While waiting, I half-filled the large bucket that was sitting in the concrete shower cubicle with cold water. Finally when the water in the pot was steaming, I carried it to the large bucket and tipped it in. Carefully I locked the cubicle door and undressed, using a small cup to dip into the large bucket I douse myself. I lathered soap on my body then dipped the small cup over and over into the bucket throwing the water over myself to rinse off the soap.
On hot summer days, Kishore and his siblings found using only cold water to wash a blessing. They would challenge each other to see who was brave enough to do this on chilly winter days.
The three of us arrived at the entrance to the mall and as we walked through the main door I suddenly felt like I had been transported to another place. We left the noise, the people and the hustle and bustle on the street outside. Inside the mall fashionable trendy shops rose high above me. I counted the three floors of the shopping complex. Escalators slid upwards snake-like onto each level. Coffee shops, pictures of glamorous models and a few feeble Christmas decorations caught my eye.
I had made a decision while sitting in the auto-rickshaw on the way to the mall. As this was the first time I had left the house without Kishore, I felt bold and determined that today I would do something just for myself. Since we had arrived in India I had relied on others, usually Kishore, for everything. I had him as a guide, an interpreter and a go-between.
I was waiting for the right opportunity to come along but I soon realised the opportunity I chose could have been the wrong one.
As we wandered around the mall I noticed a security guard standing outside almost every shop. Upon approaching the first store, Saras explained that I must leave any shopping bags with the guard. In return he would give me a little, colour-coded numbered ticket, which equated to the amount of bags I had left with him. When exiting the shop I was to show the ticket to the guard and he would return my bags. As we went in and out of different shops, I was a bit disgruntled when some of the guards even insisted looking in our handbags.
Ranjini and Saras took me into a shop that seemed similar to Farmers back home in New Zealand. Leaving our bags with the guard, we headed straight to the women’s wear department. I happily browsed with the girls through racks of traditional Indian attire and a mixture of contemporary Indian and western style clothes. I soon realised I needed to use the Ladies Room, I decided this was my opportunity to do that something bold. I told the girls where I was going, “No, Julie bhabhi,” Ranjini exclaimed, “Kishore bhaiya told us to never leave you alone.”
If going to the toilet alone meant I could do something independently, I was determined to do it and there was no way I was going to listen to Ranjini or Saras.
“I’ll be fine, don’t worry,” I said, waving my hand dismissively, quickly leaving before they could say or do anything to stop me. I collected my bags from the guard and began to search for a sign that said ‘Toilets' but couldn’t see one anywhere. I was used to them being clearly marked. Just my luck this malls toilets weren’t. I travelled up the escalator to the next level and examined the signs I saw but to no avail. I received the usual stares from people as they walked past me, I was beginning to feel slightly worried. I stopped the next woman who was heading towards me and asked for the, “Toilet, kha ha hai?” (“Where is the toilet?”) the woman simply shook her head and walked away. I approached the next woman and asked the same question and saw the puzzled look on her face. The woman asked in English, “What do you want,” relived, excuse the pun, I repeated my question, “Sorry” she said, “I don’t understand.”
By now I was starting to panic and needed the toilet desperately. I thought maybe it was my accent so with the next person I tried a different approach, “Do you know where the Ladies Room is?”
“No,” came the curt reply. I stopped several more people using hand motions, not exactly lady like, and said repeatedly, ‘toilet’ or ‘ladies room,' I even tried the old-fashioned word, ‘powder room’ but still no one understood me. Finally, now immensely frustrated, scared and in desperate need I saw the sign, like a glowing beacon, indicating a ladies room with an arrow.
Triumphantly I entered the modern and clean toilets.
As I was leaving I bumped into Ranjini and Saras, “We were starting to get worried,” exclaimed Ranjini.
Saras said, “We thought we had better come and find you.”
I told them my story, they both started laughing.
“What?,” I questioned, laughing along with them, “What’s so funny?”
“Just say bathroom,” Saras giggled, “Everybody understands bathroom.”
“Or,” said Ranjini, “Say, shuu shuu – shuu shuu means toilet, when we were in junior school, we held up our hand like this,” she raised her hand, which was clenched in a fist with only the pinky wiggling, “The teacher knew this meant we had to use the toilet.”
The next morning as promised Kishore and I ventured downstairs to visit the Singh family, he explained to me on the way just what being a Sikh meant, that Sikhism is a religion originally from Punjab. I asked why the men wore a turban, he said that, to Sikh’s, a turban is like a crown from god. Sikh men never cut their hair, so it is wound and bound around the long cloth and neatly tucked around the head to make the turban.
Wherever we went in India I was always welcomed and treated like a privileged guest and it wasn’t any different in the Singh’s home. We were offered tea and delicious sweets, enjoyed a chat and bid each other farewell.
When we left their pleasant home I reflected on the people we had met so far in Delhi and the diverse and amazing people that were in this world. Kishore and I, an English girl with an Indian fiancé had been warmly received into Kishore’s family home, welcomed into the home of a Christian-Indian family and just as warmly invited into a Sikh family. Where, I wondered, had all the conflict of race in this world come from? The people Kishore and I had met had been so kind, friendly and hospitable.
After leaving the Singh’s, Kishore decided to take me to the cinema. We hired an auto-rickshaw and drove out to a different shopping complex. He purchased two tickets for Amar, Akbar, Anthony an extremely successful Bollywood movie starring India’s most famous acting hero – Mr Amitabh Bachchan. Although this movie was a hit when it was released in 1977, it was currently a rerun at the cinema. Amitabah Bachchan has starred in many, many Bollywood movies and is highly revered - in India he is greater than Elvis or the Beatles. Songs from this movie had been playing constantly on the radio as it was being re-advertised.
The most famous song had the line ‘My name is Anthony Gonsalves…’ it was really catchy, I even found myself singing along to it.
With anticipated excitement we entered the air-conditioned theatre. Looking around I was astonished at the seating capacity which was around one thousand people, I realised I couldn’t even see the whole theatre - it was so large. An usher showed us to our allocated seats in the balcony area, with the dress circle above us. As we sat I realised the comfortable seats were cushioned and reclined.
The movie had no sub-titles but when it began I managed to slowly follow the story line. Some of the words I understood and Kishore whispered the explanation of certain scenes.
Three brothers had been separated when they were little after circumstances led to them losing their parents. Each boy ended up being raised by a different family. A Hindu family adopted the oldest boy and named him Amar. A Catholic priest fostered the middle son calling him Anthony and a Muslim family adopted the youngest boy, giving him the name Akbar. As with any Bollywood movie it was full of twists and plenty of song and dance routines, as each brother accidentally bumps into the other as they grow older but of course, at the time they don’t realise they’re brothers. Due to a remarkable storyline the brothers eventually become aware that they are siblings.
The movie was three hours long but the intermission allowed Kishore enough time to go and get ice-creams and two bottles of campa cola. As I examined the unfamiliar and strange name on the bottle Kishore told me coca-cola was not available in India as it was banned in 1977. The coca-cola company refused to reveal their secret ingredient when asked by the Indian government.
We finished our ice-creams and sank back again into the comfy chairs as the movie restarted. As the lights dimmed Kishore reached over and held my hand in the dark, squeezing it tightly, I returned his gesture then threaded his fingers snugly through my own.
Indian movies never show any kissing. The nearest a movie gets to a romantic scene would be the moment the couple look lovingly into each other’s eyes. You might see an unexpected touch of the hand or a hug but a romantic song generally shows a lovers devotion with the couple expressing their feelings with tender words.
On the way back home in an auto-rickshaw I entertained myself by imagining a Bollywood movie made about Kishore and me. The movie would, of course, star the one and only Amitabh Bachchan as the handsome leading man but who would play me? I adored Audrey Hepburn’s chic beauty but she was not the right age. Perhaps Farrah Fawcett or Raquel Welch? No, I decided, there could only be one person to play me and that is Olivia Newton-John, Grease being one of my favourite movies. Sandy was an innocent, sweet and cheerful girl and if Olivia Newton-John, as a red-head with freckles, were to star alongside Amitabh Bachchan I felt the mix would be the perfect combination of Kishore and myself. The film would of course be a box office hit in India and western countries, making our story famous all over the world.