Julie & Kishore (12 page)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The
Hindi word for good is achcha.

It
wasn’t long before, in fact about seven months into our relationship that
Kishore and I discussed the possibility of marriage. He almost scared me off on
our first date with his straight forward intentions. I was glad I had not let
myself be intimidated by his comments. I was pleased I had decided to let
nature take its natural course. Everything in our relationship so far had
fallen into place so becoming engaged seemed to be an imminent progression.

Kishore
never actually proposed to me, it was again Linda who played an important role
in this next logical step. She often teased Kishore at work about tying the
knot and dropped hints about us getting married.

One
day she cheekily joked, “Come on Kishore, it took you six months to even talk
to Julie, is it going to take you six years to propose to the girl?”

Caught
off guard Kishore replied, “You never know, Linda, Julie and I could already be
engaged.”

By
this time, Linda and I had become good friends and after receiving this snippet
of information from Kishore, she immediately rang me, demanding, “Julie, why
didn’t you tell me you and Kishore are engaged?”

“What?”
I said, “That
is
news to me, as far
as I know I am not engaged and if I was, Linda, you would be one of the first
to know.”

That
evening after work I asked Kishore what mischievous stories he had been telling
Linda. He was surprised I knew, not realising just how quickly women relayed
information to each other. He decided to turn this opportunity to his
advantage.

“Well,
Julie, my jewel,” he declared, “How about it? Why don’t we get
engaged.
”
            

Although
I was a little surprised, I promptly replied, “Okay then, why
don’t we
?” and that as they say, was that.

We
were now engaged.

It
was time for the next part of the ritual. I chose what to wear with extreme
care - a dress I hoped would convey I came from a respectable family. As we
climbed the steps to the front door, it opened and out came Kishore’s Aunt
Bhamini and Uncle Harilal.

All
of a sudden I had this overwhelming feeling of wanting to curtsy in order to
make a good impression but I managed to curtail it. It was
extremely
important I made them aware
that
I was a polite and well-mannered Kiwi girl
, that
I would make a positive addition to the family and
be a good wife for their nephew.

Aunt
Bhamini wore a traditional light blue sari. Her hair was tied back and hung
neatly down her back in a long plait. She wore red lipstick and as I leant in
to give her a hug she smelt of ginger and sandalwood. Uncle Harilal wore a
smart suit and his greying hair was lathered back with brylcreem. I had seen my
Father many times smooth his hair with the same cream and fondly recalled its
unique smell.

Their
living room was quaint with flowery wallpaper and beige carpet. We sat on
comfortable chairs with pretty white crochet doilies placed on the arm and head
rests. Photos of their three children were proudly displayed on the walls. Aunt
Bhamini offered us tea. Kishore’s eyes lit up when she also presented us with
little bowls containing a sweet dish she called gulab jaman. The fluffy dough
balls, fried like doughnuts, were covered in a sticky sugary syrup, I took a
spoonful and it was heavenly
,
with just a
slight taste of cardamom, scrumptious!

I
was overly apprehensive of the meeting but soon felt comfortable in the calm
and quietness of their company. I told them I was grateful they had helped
sponsor Kishore to move to New Zealand otherwise surely I would not have met
him. I knew they would report back to Kishore’s family their thoughts of me. If
their opinion was unfavourable then, I wondered, could the family influence
Kishore into not marrying me?

While
placing the last spoon of
gulab jaman
in my mouth,
I allowed myself to relax a bit as I
felt welcome. An old Indian saying states ‘
a
guest is god,'
this means god could appear on earth at anytime, showing him
or herself in any form,
so
each person
must be treated as if they were god, especially if they’
r
e a guest in your house. So I was warmly received
into their home and treated with courtesy and respect.

I
was amused to hear Aunt and Uncle speaking with a Kiwi accent mixed
in
with their own accent, though their traditional
customs taught from birth were apparent. They asked me about my family, what
did my Father do? How many brothers and sisters did I have?

I
finally plucked up the courage to ask, “Aunt Bhamini do you have any photos of
Kishore’s family?”

“Photos?
Of course we do dear,” she said and quickly disappeared returning with a bundle
of albums. I was so excited to finally put a face to all of the names I had
been hearing about, even if they were out of date. For the next half an hour I
devoured the snapshots as Aunty sat next to me and explained in detail each and
every person in the main family and some of the extended family. Kishore
chatted in a mixture of Hindi and English to his Uncle.

My
anxiety of this meeting had almost disappeared but this lull of my nerves did
not last long.
 
I felt myself tense up
again as the conversation
changed
to Kishore’s and
my relationship. Being representatives of Kishore’s parents, his Aunt and Uncle
felt it was their duty to see how we were getting on together so they could
relay it back to India. They had three concerns, they said.

Firstly,
they thought it could be a problem for
me to fully understand true Indian culture. Although a person could be told all
of the many traditions and customs of India, they believed I would never truly
comprehend the meaning
s
behind the many
ingrained beliefs that were there from birth. There were some things that could
never be taught, as they were part of the life you’
r
e
brought up in.

Their
next concern was that they worried I would always feel like an outsider, that I
would never fit in. After all, they had experienced this first hand. They had
been in New Zealand for a long time and still found some of the Kiwi customs
and traditions hard to understand. Coming from two different cultures and
trying to appreciate each other’s ways might be difficult for Kishore and
myself.

We
both understood what they were trying to say because Kishore had tackled these
sorts of situations already - at home, at work, in shops and on the street. He
often wondered if he would always be an outsider living as an Indian in New
Zealand.

I
lived in my homeland, my country of birth so I felt comfortable, at ease. We
had not been to India or attended any Indian functions as a couple but I hoped
my love for Kishore would out-weigh any cultural problems we might come across.

Aunt
Bhamini and Uncle Harilal then brought up their third and final
worry
. It was their belief English people did not take
marriage seriously. They said a lot of English marriages ended in divorce
because there is no one to go to for advice before they married to see if
they’re compatible. In their opinion, a lot of English people tended to jump
into marriage not understanding the true seriousness of what they were getting
into. Naturally, they believed the parents of the son or daughter getting
married should play a big part in the choosing of a life partner for their
child because this was the tradition of arranged marriages in India.

Kishore
and I spent a long time convincing them we did understand the seriousness of
what we were getting into and that our devotion for each other was absolute,
our love genuine and
that
our relationship
would last.

We
finally left, promising Aunt Bhamini and Uncle Harilal we would come back again
soon.

Getting into
Kishore
’s car, we both admitted that
we felt like we had just been thorough
an interrogation, totally drained from so much discussion.

On
the way home, I reflected on the afternoon. It was the first time I had been in
a room with Indian people with no westerners for support. Although everyone
spoke English during our meeting, there were a few times when, in the
excitement of seeing each other, the three of them switched to Hindi.
Instantly, I felt cut off from them and blocked out. Sitting in a room full of
strangers - his Aunt and Uncle - and not understanding a word being said was
terribly
uncomfortable and to be sitting in a
room full of people with your potential life partner sitting next to you and
not understand a word he was saying was very, very bizarre.

At
one point during the conversation, while they were all conversing in Hindi,
Uncle Harilal must have said something funny because everyone laughed.
Everyone,
that is,
except me who just sat looking blankly
at the smiling faces. Finally, in frustration, I put my head down and stared at
my lap. It was the oddest feeling and for the first time a smidgeon of doubt
about being with Kishore started to creep into my mind.

It
is the way is was always going to be?

Kishore
had glanced at me to see if I had enjoyed the joke but as I looked at him he
saw the blank look on my face and confusion in my eyes. It took a few seconds
for him to realise why I wasn’t happy, that I hadn’t understood the funny joke
or what was being said. His face changed from sympathy to annoyance. He had
taken a long time to grasp the Kiwi accent - he, too, had been in a room full
of people and not understood what anyone was saying. He was annoyed with
himself because he had not kept control of the situation and made sure everyone
stuck to English, or at least kept a running commentary
going
so I knew what was being said.

That
day we made a pact. Kishore would spend a few minutes whenever we met teaching
me a few basic Hindi words. A couple
of
days later he
presented me with a book titled, ‘Learn to speak Hindi’ which resulted in me
giving him a sweet kiss and a big hug.

CHAPTER TWENTY

The
Hindi word for water is pani.

Why
had he not met me earlier? In Kishore’s mind so much time had been already
wasted. If we had met sooner we could already be in the process of really
planning our future together. But, he knew it was a silly thing to think
because it was fate that decided when it was time to meet his beloved. He
believed meeting me was his karma and part of
gods
great plan in life for him.

His
belief was more than praying to god. It was a strong faith. He had experienced
extreme loneliness at times in his life and praying brought him peace of mind
and was a great comfort. His religion was his faith, a companion when he felt
alone.

The
nights we didn’t meet, Kishore phoned me and we talked for hours not caring we
would be tired at work the next day.

One
night I asked him what he had eaten for dinner.

“Ohh,
I warmed up some dahl I had made last night.”

“What!”
I exclaimed, “Are you okay Kishore? Was something wrong with the dahl?”

“Huh,
no Julie, why?”

“Because
you just said you vomited up the dahl.”

“No,”
Kishore chuckled, “I said I wwwarmed up the dahl…on the stove.”

Kishore’s
accent was strong and although I understood him ninety percent of the time, I
did occasionally find his pronunciation a bit confusing especially as his
w’s
sounded like
v’s
.

“I’ve
been wondering,” I said moving onto my next question, “Which language do you
think in?”
 

After
he had time to think about it Kishore replied. “You know, Julie, I have just
realised
that
I think in English.” English was now such a major
part of his life that it had become natural for him to think in the language.
Upon reflection he realised he even dreamed in English.

After
our long love talk during which I was lying in bed, I eventually fell asleep
with the phone pressed up against my ear. “Juuuuullllliiiieeee, wake up Julie
jewel,” Kishore called down the phone.

“No,”
I drowsily replied, “I am sleeping.” He didn’t mind, he was happy just to hear
his darling breathing.

One
weekend I suggested we choose a couples song and he asked the relevance in
doing this. “Couples often have a song that is theirs,” I explained, he was
still perplexed. “It’s what couples do, it’s a bonding thing so whenever they
hear that song they know it’s
their
song.” Eventually I persuaded him it was a good idea. We both enjoyed songs
from the ‘
70’s
especially the Carpenters, the Bee Gees, Abba and
even Kamhal. We decided to pick one from that era. Kishore remembered Abba
being played in India, after all the band was a world-wide phenomenon.

Kishore
knew my favourite song was, '
How deep is
your love'
by the Bee Gees, he also liked this song but confessed he didn’t
really understand the words. He enjoyed the melody of the brothers singing and
the beat of the background music. After explaining the lyrics to him he decided
it was an extremely tender and loving song that suited us as a couple. The
verse we thought most apt was the chorus:

'How
deep is your
love

I
really need to learn

Cause
we’re living in a world of fools

Breaking
us down

When
they all should let us be

We
belong to you and me'

The
words were so appropriate it was as if the song had been written
especially
for us and
for
those who did not approve of our relationship. So it was agreed – this would be
our song.
 
Whenever it played on the
radio we would excitedly exclaim, “Ohhh… it’s our song.” Stopping whatever we
were doing
we would take each other’s hands and gaze dreamily
into one another’s eyes. One morning when I had just arrived at work I received
a surprise phone call from Kishore.

“I
was late for work today,” he confessed.

“Why?”

“I
was listening to the radio on my way to work and our song started playing just
as I was pulling into the car park at the office.”

“So?”
I questioned.

“I
couldn’t just leave,” he declared “Julie, it is
our
song,
our
song! I
would feel like I was betraying us if I left half-way through our song!”

My
heart melted as I wondered if any man could be more romantic.

                                                
*

Sally,
my cousin had been rushed to hospital as her appendix had burst. I was close to
Sally and visited her several times in the hospital.
Since living in New Zealand
Kishore
didn’t
know anyone
who had been
in hospital and was interested to know
about the medical system.

All I could tell him was
, “the nurse explained to Sally
that she would have to spend a week in hospital.” I continued, “the nurse told
her she would have to rest a lot when she got home” also, “the nurse said Sally
would have to return in ten days to have her stitches out.”

He
listened intently to me finally asking quizzically, “Julie, it is good to hear
all about Sally but I have been wondering, who on earth is Denise?” It took me
a few minutes to realise I had been saying
the
nurse
so often
,
the words had
merged into Denise denurse-denise.

This
time it was Kishore’s turn to be confused with my accent.

The
mall was crowded with busy Saturday shoppers - excited teenagers
giggled with their friends while
slurping
milkshakes, babies being pushed in strollers
stared wide-eyed in wonder
at the bright lights and hungry people
ate sandwiches and muffins
while
sitting
at
cafes that smelt of roasting coffee.

My
dear fiancé was at times becoming bolder and sillier.
 
His romantic side emerged after he became
bored watching me browsing through racks of clothes.

Approaching
from behind, he wrapped his arms around my waist, lent his chin on my shoulder
and sung softly in my ear. I recognised the romantic Hindi song. He had sung it
to me before. At first I swayed from side to side with him, enjoying the
intimacy of his lips so close but as I moved about the shop he stayed right
next to my ear and went right on singing. I tried to ignore him but his singing
became progressively louder with people beginning to turn their heads to see
where the sound was coming from.

With
a pout, I gave Kishore a
look
that
said please don’t, following with
a
‘ssssshhhhhhhhhh.’
My disapproval only made him laugh which of course encouraged him to sing
louder
. I glared at him
with another
look
this one said 'Stop it, you’re embarrassing me.’ But he kept
right on singing.
As he became louder and more
vocal, I
managed
to dart away and
disappear into another shop. He caught
up with me, there was no escape,
eventually
I
gave up being embarrassed and let him sing. After
all they were only words of love.