CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The Hindi word for moon is chandra.
My Delhite - resident of Delhi (I was getting good at the local lingo) fiancé and I headed out the next afternoon in an auto (short for auto-rickshaw – more of the local lingo) to Jan Path, a large popular outdoor open market in the same vicinity as Connaught Place. As we entered we found it was so packed with people, it was hard to take one step in front of the other without being pushed and shoved.
My eyes bulged in wonder as I gazed in disbelief at the scene opening out in front of me. The smells were overwhelming, a heady vibrant mix of spices. The noise was loud and the sounds mingled together. Not being able to understand the language being spoken or shouted and the sound of hundreds of people all talking at the same time is like one roaring hum. Every now and then I heard above the din a vendor’s sing-song voice calling out to people to come to his stall to buy his product.
I clutched hold of Kishore’s shirt tightly as I digested the dynamic images in front of me, a multi-coloured pot pourri mix of market stalls that were open at the front selling anything and everything anyone could possibly want.
Handbags, hand-crafts, scarves, ties, shoes, cushion covers, wall hangings, toys and bracelets - the list goes on and on. All types of Indian food was also on sale – ones I knew of plus much, much more. The aromas were overpowering. The first stall Kishore eagerly headed for was a vendor selling kulcha (which are a type of roti bread fried in oil) and cholay (thick and soupy cooked chick peas). The vendor was stirring the steaming cholay in a big pot, the spicy fragrance wafting up from it was, to Kishore, like a piece of heaven. A lot of Indian food is vegetarian and the variety is endless. He had missed these types of food in New Zealand, the flavours he had known since he was a child, a pure palate of delight.
Indian people rarely use utensils and this occasion was no exception. At outside markets like this one, each food stall will have a bucket or tap nearby to rinse your hands after eating.
Kishore bought one serving of kulcha and cholay for me and one himself. Handing me a banana leaf, which masqueraded as a plate, I saw there were two kulcha with a helping of cholay on the top. The idea is to break off a piece of kulcha and use it to kind of dip and scoop up the cholay.
In other states of India rice is more popular than kulcha or any type of roti. Fingers still replace utensils and the rice acts as a mop to soak up the dahl or vegetables as you eat.
I kept one eye on Kishore as I took my first taste test wanting to see his reaction. I tentatively took a small bite, to his delight, I instantly wanted more, it was just scrumptious. We quickly finished eating and after rinsing our hands, Kishore caught sight of the next stall selling raw parsnips and rushed towards it. The vendor cut a slit through the middle of a parsnip and sprinkled salt and spices - ground coriander and ginger - along it, he then squeezed along the top, the juice from a lime. Encouraging me to have a bite Kishore held it under my nose, “Smell it Julie, it is so yummy.” I sniffed and to be honest, all I could smell was old socks, it just wasn’t my type of taste. In comparison, the happy grin on Kishore’s face as he crunched his way through the parsnip was contagious – reminding me of a boy who had stolen his Mum’s freshly baked cookies straight from the oven.
With a nearly full tummy, we, of course, could not say no to dessert. Kishore bought Indian ice-cream called kulfi, which is prepared in the usual way ice-cream is made with cream and sugar but saffron, almonds and pistachios are added, mango kulfi is also a popular treat. Kishore handed me a paper cup and with a little wooden spoon, I placed a spoonful of the ice-cream in my mouth, the milky taste was absolutely out of this world.
Kishore’s reassurance soothed me so I didn’t worry about ‘Delhi belly.’ I did drink boiled water, most of the time but as for food, I trusted his judgement. He knew what was clean and the best places to buy food from, even if it was from a stall on the side of the road.
Before moving to New Zealand Kishore worked in a suburb of Delhi called Okhla. His pride and joy at that time was his Bobby motorbike, a smaller bike than the bigger and more popular Royal Enfield.
The hour and a half ride home on winter’s evenings was long and bitterly cold. The icy wind bit through his warm coat and crept under the knitted scarf that was wrapped around his mouth under his helmet. Longing for a hot meal, he occasionally stopped half-way home in an area called South Extension at a vendor’s cart on the side of the road. He bought a steaming bowl of goat’s hoof stew or chicken soup and once or twice he had spicy sweet-corn soup. Wrapping his chilly hands around the piping hot bowl, he sipped the tasty brew while chatting to the other patrons who had also stopped. As warmth filled his entire body, he eagerly ate one bowl after another until he felt satisfied. He was then able to climb back aboard his motorbike and continue the journey home, where he ate his Mother’s dinner as well. Being young and working hard allowed him to eat as much as he liked and still maintain his trim figure.
Back to that day at Jan Path market, it seemed to get busier and busier the longer Kishore and I stayed. I clung tighter to him and became scared in case I lost him. The sheer volume of people was just overwhelming. Kishore on the other hand was in his element and excited to be amongst the dynamism and commotion of the market, back on familiar ground in his own territory.
He glimpsed a stall selling scarves on the other side of the market which took his attention and his eye. It was something he had been meaning to buy for me for ages.
Since our first date when I had worn the khaki-green scarf, Kishore had wanted to buy one for me. He had been looking all over for a scarf in that unique colour, which he had never let me forget was his favourite but in the style of his choosing.
He headed directly towards the stall with me still clutching tightly onto the back of his shirt, as he pushed his way through the crowd.
Somehow, I tripped on the uneven ground, I lost my footing, fumbled, let go of his shirt and in his haste he didn’t notice. He pushed ahead through the horde of people, I called out, “Kishore, Kishore!” but of course he never heard me.
Before my eyes he was swallowed by the mass and disappeared.
I tried to move forward but the crowd was too strong and dense. I stood on my tippy-toes, putting my hand up to my head like a visor to try to spot him but no, I had lost him, like he had never existed in the first place. I had lost my grip on the only thing I knew not only in Delhi but in India.
Without Kishore, I didn’t know which way to turn. Frantically, I looked around, then tried to find a way through the crowd in the direction Kishore had gone but the mass of people was just too thick. I thought of asking someone to take me to a stall selling scarves but unfortunately for me there was more than one person selling them. Besides, he was probably looking for me right now. How could I ask anybody, anything, anyway – I couldn’t speak Hindi.
I had met many of Kishore’s neighbours, friends and relatives since I had been in India but I didn’t know where they lived or how to get in touch with them. I didn’t know anybody’s phone number or even Kishore’s parents home number. I didn’t even know their address. All I could remember was Sundar Garden, nothing else.
I sighed loudly and stood on my tippy-toes again but I couldn’t see, it was just a mass of humanity and flashes of brightly coloured saris. To add to my worsening situation, I found I was being bumped and pushed and jostled by the crowd as they went about their business. I was moving farther and farther away from him and terror began to rise in my body. How would Kishore find me if I wasn’t at the place where we had lost each other?
Minutes ticked by as the crowd pushed me along with it like we were one unit until I emerged at another side of the market. Realising how far I had come from where I had lost Kishore, I became terrified. How would he find me now? I thought of looking for a police officer but again I realised it was no use, I couldn’t speak Hindi, the reality of my situation set in. I was lost, completely and utterly lost and totally helpless.
Hot tears of frustration sprang from my eyes. I didn’t know what to do, I felt desperate and panic began to take over. As I gazed around me, in my muddled state I began to feel giddy, my head was spinning and the faces of the people walking by strangely rotated glaringly in front of my eyes. Their images circled my vision - the faces were of a kaleidoscope of suspicious looking men with missing teeth, laughing and taunting me.
Finally an older Indian woman stared at me, a crying, pale faced, red headed girl standing, near hysterical at the side of the market all on her own.
She was dressed in a mauve sari and her head was covered in a matching coloured shawl but it had slipped back and her silvery grey hair was exposed, “Are you okay, what is the matter?” she asked in English. By this time, I was too upset to speak but made myself take a few deep breaths. The woman came closer and put her arm around me. I was sobbing but managed to convey I had lost my fiancé. Thinking I was a tourist she asked which hotel I was staying at. I almost wailed a mournful Nooooo! as I realised if authorities were looking for me there was no record of accommodation, no hotel registry for police to check if I didn’t return. The vulnerability of my situation sunk in, I had put myself into a position where I had no emergency backup, no plan B. Heck, we hadn’t even discussed a plan A!
With my heart thumping in my chest, I thought of the one place that would save me. I knew I must get to the New Zealand Embassy. I would be safe there and could phone my parents. I longed to hear the reassuring sound of Mum’s voice. I’d ask her or Dad to somehow arrange an emergency passport, get a ticket and fly home. Home – like a warm blanket being wrapped around me, the only word at that moment that sounded comforting and secure.
Through my tears and frantic alarm I told the woman, “My fiancé is Indian but I have lost him, please, please help me to a taxi, I need to get to the New Zealand Embassy.”
“Okay, okay, what is your name dear,” she asked.
“Julie, my name is Julie.”
“Try to calm down Julie, I am Mrs Malik, come with me, I will take you to a taxi.”
She took my hand and led me through the crowd. I didn’t know if what I was doing was right or wrong but I allowed myself to be escorted by her. We reached the gates of the market where Kishore and I had happily entered only an hour and a half before. Mrs Malik, still holding my hand, steered me to the verge of the sidewalk. She put up her hand to wave down a taxi but it went speeding by but the next one she waved at stopped.
I glanced behind me at the entrance to the market, willing Kishore to walk out of the gate but he wasn’t there.
Mrs Malik, spoke in Hindi to the taxi driver, I heard the words, ‘New Zealand Embassy.’ I briefly wondered how I would pay the driver and hoped when I arrived at the embassy they would assist me with money.
I thanked Mrs Malik and left her standing on the curb as I climbed into the car, it drove off and quickly merged with the traffic. I thought of Kishore and felt a great emptiness fill my entire body. There was no turning back - I was now completely alone.
I closed my eyes for a few seconds to gather my thoughts and realised the radio was blaring, the noise filling the inside of the car. Brought out of my brief solace, I reluctantly opened my eyes. Considering my circumstances the high-pitched penetrating shrill of a female classical Indian singer was not exactly a comforting sound. But louder than the song was the toot-toot of my driver announcing his presence to the other cars. I peeped at him through his rear vision mirror. He was young, only perhaps twenty-five, his greasy black hair was combed back in a slick style. As he opened his mouth to mutter at the cars cutting him off, I saw his teeth already showed the tell-tale orange staining from chewing the betel leaf. He was as far away as a person could be from a Raja (King) so in my mind that is what I cynically called him. Raja looked up at his mirror and caught my eye, he smiled at me. I quickly diverted my gaze, his smile was devious and I felt another emotion at the pit of my stomach, repulsion.
I swivelled my head and looked behind me through the back window of the taxi, wishing I would see Kishore, hoping he was somehow following me, that he had hailed a taxi and was charging through the traffic coming to my rescue but no, I realised sadly it was not to be.
The car slowed to a halt as we approached traffic lights, from the corner of my eye I saw a beggar approaching my window, ‘not now, I thought, ‘just go away and leave me alone.’
I remembered Kishore’s words, to ignore beggars and forced myself to look straight ahead. The vagrant, a small child tapped on the glass. I couldn’t help it, my head, as if it wasn’t my own, spun towards him. His face was dirty and cheeks hollow but it was his big, brown doe-like eyes that stared hopefully into mine. I desperately wanted to open the car door, pull him into my arms and just hold him. Thankfully the lights changed to green and as the taxi drove off, we left the boy standing on the road.
I glanced, with fearful eyes into Raja’s mirror again, he was looking at back me with a smirk on his face that made my stomach flip. I cried desolately to myself, ‘Oh Kishore, where are you.’
I glanced back at the traffic behind us but no, Kishore was not there.
I again realised the vulnerability of my situation, if Raja tried anything now, what could I do? Could I fight him, scream, would anybody help me? Would my friends words now come true? Would I be sold to a white slave trader? Would I become a statistic, just another white-skinned tourist lost in a foreign country?
I forced myself away from those dark thoughts and focused on what I would do once I got to the embassy. Firstly, I would call my Mum, I strained my memory to think if I had Kishore’s parents phone number written down somewhere in my bedroom at home. No, I was sure I didn’t, I racked my brain to try and remember his parents address. For goodness sake, Kishore had said it enough times, in fact every time we went out he told the driver his parents address so we could get back home. How did I get myself into this? Why on earth hadn’t we planned this better? Feeling like a fool, I banged my forehead with the palm of my hand. Kishore! I wanted to scream.
Maybe this was all going to be too much, marrying him and always having a feeling of being on edge when facing all of the trials and tribulations that come with cultural situations. Have I been given a sign that I shouldn’t be with him and I should give in and do what society wants and marry a European man? Could this be my final chance to escape? The only reasonable solution I could think of right now was to get to the embassy, ring Mum and ask her to arrange a ticket so I could fly home.
The taxi slowed, I looked out of the window - we were approaching a sign it said:
Sir Edmund Hillary: New Zealand High Commission.
I was relieved and surprised, we had only been in the taxi twenty minutes at the most but then of course I had no idea how far away the embassy was.
Sir Edmund Hillary and New Zealand, as I read those comforting words the image of the iconic Fatherly figure, a symbol of all things Kiwi appeared in my mind. A flood of relief washed over me and tears pricked my eyes. Julie, I told myself, hold it together just a bit longer. The taxi pulled up in front of the large iron gates. I noticed a group of homeless people nearby, here, even here! I thought. Raja twisted his head around to face me, “Embassy Memsab,” he said.
I heard a tapping on the car window on the other side from where I was sitting. This time I was definitely not looking at the beggars, ‘go away’ I wanted to scream, ‘I am going through a crisis here, just leave me alone.’
The tapping continued, “Julie…Julie! It’s me, Kishore.”
The words sounded strange in my ears, Kishore? How could Kishore be here? I was afraid to turn my head in case I was imagining his voice.
I turned, I stared, my eyes opened wide, it was him, really him.
I opened the door on my side and scrambled out of the cab. As I stood and turned, Kishore had already run around the side of the car and was standing in front of me.
His face said it all, he was as frantic as I was. I practically fell into his arms. We hugged tightly. Finally enclosed in the security of his embrace I wept onto his shoulder deeply breathing in his familiar comforting and reassuring smell, Cossack and just well, him.
He pulled apart from me, held my hands and did an inspection, visually checking me from head to toe.
“Darling, are you all right?”
I was all right now I was with him, I meekly nodded, “Yes I’m okay,” I croaked.
“Oh Julie, Julie, I am so sorry I lost you. I searched everywhere for you, I am so, so sorry.”
Oblivious of anything around us, he gently kissed each of my tear stained eyelids, his lips being moist from his own salty tears. He pulled me close and hugged me to him again. There was no doubt his anguish was as great as mine. As we soothed each other, I finally managed to ask, "But how, how did you know where I was?” Kishore pointed and I saw another taxi, the one he rode in, “I took a taxi here, Julie, come on let’s go home, we’ll get into your taxi and I’ll explain on the way."
Pulling himself away from me, he walked over to his taxi and paid his driver. We then both climbed into the back seat of my cab. I listened very carefully as Kishore gave the address of his family home to a now bewildered Raja, if I had only listened that carefully before.
Once we were back on the road, Kishore explained his side of the story. When he realised I was gone he had of course been beside himself with worry. He stopped many people in the market and asked over and over again if they had seen me, he had searched everywhere. Then, as luck would have it, he finally caught a glimpse of my red hair as I walked towards the exit. He tried to push his way through the crowd but by the time he got out of the gate, I was already in the taxi driving away – he was too late.
I was momentarily amazed, my red hair that I had hated all my life was like a beacon of light in the bush to a group of lost trampers - it had saved me. I understood Kishore’s distress by the tears welling in his eyes. He put his arm through mine, I guess he needed to touch me, reassuring himself I was really there, “The old lady,” he said, “She told me where you were going, where she had told the taxi driver to go.”
“But I kept looking behind me, you weren’t there.”
He gently smiled, “I told my taxi driver to take a different route, hoping to get to the embassy faster but it seems we got there about the same time.”
Back in Sundar Garden with a warm, sweet cup of tea inside us, we relived the whole terrible ordeal again as we told his family the entire story. Kishore then did two things - firstly he didn’t stop apologising, telling me over and over that he would never let me out of his sight again. He loved me so much and proclaimed if he had not found me he would have never given up searching, even if it took the rest of his life. He had travelled all the way to New Zealand to finally find his love so how could he spend his life without me? He had made a promise to my Mother to look after me. How would he have told my family he had lost me?
Kishore’s second task was to write down in Hindi and English his parents name, address and phone number, telling me to keep it in my purse or somewhere on me at all times. He also gave me some rupees, enough to catch a taxi from anywhere in Delhi to his parents address, “Julie, keep this money to use only in an emergency,” and “don’t get into an auto, you must get a taxi.” When I asked him why he replied, “Autos are too open, Julie, when they stop at traffic lights anyone could reach in and grab you.”
For the remainder of that day and the next I often felt his concerned eyes upon me, I’d turn to him and meekly smile, “Are you okay," he asked again and again, I simply nodded. It took me two days to begin to feel myself again. I didn’t blame Kishore at all, it wasn’t his fault, it was just a lack of planning from both of us.
In the taxi on the way to the embassy with Raja, I had seriously thought about my future. Now, I had come to realise that incident had been yet another test, a test to see if we could survive. We were like two swimmers who were tentatively putting our toes in the water feeling the temperature. Could we jump in together and take the plunge? If we did, would we be swimming in the warm, calm tropical ocean or the icy, cold Antarctic sea?
Our bond was certainly stronger as we had now together endured an extremely emotional event.
If there was any uncertainty about Kishore’s love for me that incident had certainly dispelled it.