Julie & Kishore (16 page)
Authors: Carol Jackson
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’
r
e 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.
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 was
n’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? I
t 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 in
to
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.