Julie & Kishore (20 page)

As
he was listening to his Mum talking, he felt Julie’s eyes boring into him but
he kept his eyes down, he needed time to think this through. Part of the reason
he had wanted to bring Julie to India was to get his families approval, there
was no doubt he now had that. To have his family with him to witness his
marriage and to take her back to New Zealand as his wife would be a great
honour.

What
more could he ask for? Well, convincing Julie was what he needed to ask for.
Kishore said a quick prayer to help him to find the right words to say to her.

To
convince her to say yes, would be one task, once the elaborate preparations
began without any of her family or friends
present
- would be another, would she change her mind?

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

The
Hindi word for party is jashan.

I
had no idea Indian weddings were so elaborate and regardless of the family
budget the preparations just grew and grew, the more extravagant the better.
There was a great deal to organise, the food, the guests,
the
decorations! With Kishore being the eldest child in his family and the first to
be married, a precedent was to be set, it had to be a big affair. We’d be
husband and wife – in
less than
three weeks! It
would be a new year - a new year and new beginnings. Kishore’s family would be
there to support me but no one from my family would
come
to
witness our special event. I apprehensively called my family back home to tell
them the news.

“Can
I please make a person to person call to Auckland, New Zealand,” I asked the
operator. As the call went through I imagined Mums kitchen and the phone
ringing as it sat on the countertop.

Mum
finally answered and after a few minutes of small talk she could obviously tell
from the tone of my voice that something was on my mind, “You sound a bit
strange Julie, what is it, is everything okay?”

I
could imagine Mum pacing, she always paced when she talked on the phone, I took
a deep breath,
“
Mum I have something exciting to tell
you.”
I eagerly blurted, “Kishore and I have decided to
get married while we are here.”

“What?”
she exclaimed, “Julie, are you sure that is what you want?” I explained our
plans, she was a little stunned and I could tell she was a bit emotional but
thankfully she supported me. She insisted I promise to have another wedding
with our family when we came home. I heard Dad’s voice in the background, then
a rustle as Mum handed the phone to him.
                 
                                                          

“Hello
Julie, what’s all this about a wedding then?” he was putting on his grizzly
bear voice but I knew he was a softie at heart. His advice was to take many
photos because, when it was all over, photos would be all we would have to
remind not only ourselves but my entire family of our special day.

I
had always dreamt
,
of course
,
which girl doesn’t of a traditional white wedding.
To walk up the aisle with my Dad at my side, my arm linked through his. I
wanted my family and my Kiwi friends, especially Linda, to witness our marriage
because without her persistence we probably would never have got together.
Besides, we would have to marry in New Zealand to obtain a New Zealand marriage
certificate.

Let
the whirlwind preparations commence!

 
The suburb where
Kishore’s family lived was named Sundar (beautiful) Garden after t
he
large park-like area just across the road from their
block of flats.
This
was
used by the neighbouring children as a playground and
the elderly liked to sit on chairs
in the
shade
and
chat. The black crows that
inhabited the
trees
teasingly cawed at the cheeky squirrels as they scurried amongst the branches.
This was the site chosen to have the wedding. Tables and chairs were to be set
up along with hundreds of lights and decorations. There was music to be
organised and a pundit (priest) who would perform the ceremony had to be
booked. Kishore was to wear a men’s Indian wedding suit but not have his face
covered as in a
traditional
arranged
marriage.

Kishore’s
excited Mother soon whisked me away to the markets. I was still getting my head
around calling my Mother-in-law-to-be, Mummyji. It was hard to call another
person Mother especially having known her for such a short time. We travelled
by bicycle rickshaw. This was another new experience for me
,
a three-wheeled pedal bicycle that pulls a trailer
with a roof
,
where the customers sit on a bench. With apparent
ease the rider pedals off fast pulling his passengers along the busy streets.

To
my extreme surprise and complete embarrassment the bicycle rickshaw driver we
hired didn’t even have a bicycle!
 
His
appearance showed he was a small thin man, dressed simply in a white singlet
and billowing white drawstring pants. While Mummyji and I sat in the little
trailer, he pulled it with his hands, with the strength of an ox he ran flat
out amongst the traffic. My Mother-in-law didn’t bat an eyelid but I was
mortified, poor man. I consoled myself understanding it was his livelihood, in
fact it was considered a small business and the few rupees he earned from our
fare
,
were after all
,
his wages.

It
wasn’t long before we arrived at an entire street lined with shops dedicated to
merchandise associated with material and clothing. Some of the shops sold
ready-made saris or salwar kameez (the pants and top suit most Indian women
wear day to day) but Mummyji and I had come today specifically to look for a
bridal sari.

We
began our search at one end of the street and went in and out of the shops. My
Mother-in-law was now in full shopping mode and would not accept anything less
than what she deemed to be the perfect wedding sari for her eldest son’s bride.
As we entered each shop the salesman tried to direct his attention to me
the tourist
but Mummyji did not listen
to any of his banter. She was in sole control of the situation and a force to
be reckoned with.

Brides
in Indian culture traditionally wear red, which symbolises fresh start
s
or new beginnings. The wedding sari is
extravagantly decorated with gold embroidery. While English brides wear white,
for Indian people white is worn
by holy men
,
at
funerals or by grieving widows or widowers.

The
shops we entered had no door
and
were completely
open to the street.
Each store had
three walls
lined with shelves from floor to ceiling, each shelf contained dozens of types
of cloth, the range of colours and types of fabric astounded me. I never
imagined there could be so many shades, designs and styles – flowers,
embroidery, lace and beading. A person could spend hours choosing the perfect
material they desired.

Using
a tailor in India is a popular way of having a garment made. After choosing and
buying fabric, the customer takes it to their regular tailor to have the
garment stitched. He will know from experience, his
customers
measurements and adds embroidery or trimming as requested. Tailors are
extremely precise and will do an impeccable job.

Because
of the time constraints my Mother-in-law decided to choose a ready
made
silk bridal sari. As we entered each shop with Mummyji’s requests of
requirements, each salesman eagerly took sari after sari out of its packet.
Opening each one, he laid it delicately on the bench, fussing and preening over
it as if it were a diamond and ruby crown. Laying the fabric on my shoulder he
made flattering remarks about how exquisite it would look on. With each man
hoping he would make a sale they were disappointed when Mummyji was not
satisfied. She shook her head as we left each shop and walked away.

After
spending exhausting hours looking she finally decided on what she deemed to be
the perfect one, the sari that met all of her requirements. When it came to the
cost, she knew how to barter. My seemingly sweet Mother-in-law had no trouble
talking the salesman into the best price, even if an English woman was present.

I
completely trusted Mummyji’s judgement, there was no need to try the sari on
because saris are, after all, just one especially long length of cloth. The
only part that is fitted is the bodice (choli), which to me seemed like a small
blouse. Kishore’s Mother assured me there was no need to even try that on. She
knew just by looking at me what size I was.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

The
Hindi word for person is vyakti.

My
Mother-in-law to be decided her next duty was to teach me how to be a good
housewife. She literally meant the old sense of the word ‘house
-
wife.' Kishore tried to explain to his Mother that
things were completely different in New Zealand and just because I was going to
be his wife, it didn’t mean I was going to stay at home and look after the
house. Kishore and I had discussed whether we would live with my parents or
rent a small flat. The latter was more likely as we longed for our own privacy,
despite the fact saving for our own home would become harder. Kishore’s Mother
wondered if we lived in a flat with both of us working, who would do the
laundry, which she did by hand, the cooking and
cleaning?
In
her
mind a man could not be expected to do these things.

Dust
is a big factor in Delhi, it settles everywhere. Housewives will wipe surfaces
daily and if a family goes away for more than a week dust covers are placed
over the furniture and every surface. If this is not done the whole house will
be covered in dust upon return. The hiring of a servant is a fairly easy thing
to do in India, more so when Kishore’s Mother was little. A young girl or boy
from a poor family was happy to work in a house for a small wage. The servant
would more likely be a boy and would live with the family and be proud to be earning
so he could send money back home to his parents. Wealthy households might have
a whole family of servants living with them, who attend to the cooking,
cleaning, driving, gardening and other household chores.

Servants
were not
usually
an option in New Zealand during the
eighties, so trying to earn, save, pay the bills, attend to all of the
housework and look after a baby when it comes along is even harder for young
couples.

Kishore
told his sceptical Mother
that
we would manage,
cooking could be done
in advance
in bulk and
frozen, which is what he did in his boarding house. He said every house in New
Zealand had a washing machine and cleaning could be done together on the
weekends. He assured her modern women kept working after they were married.
They didn’t stop when they were pregnant and quite often went back to work even
after the baby was born.

After
all the talk about being a good housewife, I wanted to appease my Mother-in-law
so it was decided I would at least learn how to cook some Indian food. I loved
to cook and wanted to prepare meals for Kishore I knew he would enjoy. With
this in mind, I became an eager student. The first food Mummyji decided to
teach me was to make rotis which are served with most meals. Sometimes rice is
used as a substitute to rotis - vegetables, dahl or a meat dish are the
accompaniments.

Due
to India’s large population and the gap between rich and poor
,
adaptations have been made to serve nutritious
meals that are extremely inexpensive. The variety of lentils alone is huge and
can be bought in bulk for little expense. Chillies, onions, garlic, ginger and
spices are used to add flavour
to jazz up the
meal – to give it some bite or grit and there are
, of course,
the
medicinal benefits of these spices.

Kishore’s
Mum and
the
other women of the neighbourhood make delicious
pickles with lime, lemon, chilli or ginger and enjoy swapping their creations
with each other.

Every
morning on the footpath outside Kishore’s family home, a street hawker could be
heard hollering “Fresh fruit and vegetables – bananas, apples, potatoes.” The
hawker waits next to his cart, which is laden with produce while housewives
determine
 
what
to cook that day by the
best price they
can
get for
vegetables from him.

As
I stood next to Mummyji her experienced hands easily kneaded the flour and
water, which quickly formed into dough, which would be used to make the rotis.
She then clicked on the gas for the tawa to heat up. A tawa is made out of
heavy black iron and is similar to a frying pan with no sides. Sprinkling a
dusting of flour onto her hands she effortlessly shaped the dough into golf
sized balls. Picking up her rolling pin she pressed the first ball
flat to
the size
and diameter
of
a side plate. She repeated this process with each ball, placin
g
them,
one
by one on the hot tawa. When the bottom begins to cook the roti is flipped. I
t
is supposed to blow up like a balloon when it’s
fully cooked, this can be achieved by lightly pressing it with a cloth.

Up
until now I had been an observer, handing me the rolling pin Mummyji gestured I
could try rolling out the next roti. Ha! My attempts at trying to roll those
little balls into neat round circles were hysterical! Square, rectangular,
oval, my rotis were anything
but
round. I knew food was
meant
to be respected
but I could not help picking up a knife and drawing eyes, a mouth and a fin
into the dough I was rolling that somehow ended up in the shape of a fish. Even
Mummyji had a little chuckle!

The
rotis
as they’r
e
cooked are
piled up one by one. Wrapping them in a cloth
keeps them warm
until
they are ready to be eaten. If a hungry crowd is waiting, fresh rotis are
served straight from the tawa. Young children eagerly stand by their Mothers as
the enticing smell of the dough toasting wafts through the house. A hungry
growing child could eat ten rotis
one after the
other
,
spread with a little ghee, clarified butter, which Kishore’s Mum also make
s
herself, they are
absolutely
divine,
hot and buttery - just scrumptious.

A
stuffed roti is created by sprinkling grated onion, potato or cauliflower when
rolling the roti, it’s then cooked in the usual way with a little ghee drizzled
on the tawa. Stuffed rotis are delicious served with natural yoghurt and are a
light meal by themselves. Adding a little sugar when rolling makes a sweet
roti, these are welcomed by hungry children after school.

Having
always thought yoghurt was something bought at the supermarket, I discovered it
could be easily made at home. Kishore’s Mum showed me how simple it was to
make, I was really surprised. Yoghurt was definitely something I would be
making
once I got back to New Zealand.

Additions
can always be made to Indian food so it can stretch further. Flour is
inexpensive and extremely versatile. When cooking vegetables every part of it
is used, nothing is discarded. If an unexpected guest arrives right on dinner
time, extra rotis can always be made. Dahl is soupy and can be stretched to
feed more mouths.

It
didn’t take me long to realise that Mummyji had an ulterior motive while
teaching me how to make rotis. She was in fact a truly smart and loveable
woman. The two of us enjoyed many laughs while getting to know each other
during cooking, creating a wonderful bonding effect. I taught her some easy
English words while she in turn attempted to teach me some Hindi words. We
laughed at our efforts to pronounce the others language. My attempts
at
making rotis were hideous but also really funny.
Kishore’s Mum knew our time together was short so she insisted on teaching me
to cook as well as learn Indian ways, which was her way of getting to know me a
little better. While cooking she asked me about my love for Kishore and tried
to explain her idea of being a good wife.

With
our limited communication I learnt things about Kishore’s childhood that only a
Mother has knowledge of. She told me about her marriage to Chandra and the joy
she experienced at the birth of her first son. Mummyji told her side of the
story when Kishore was left with his Grandma. Unfortunately she became too
upset to talk about the six years she spent without him. Although she did
recall with a shine to her cheeks, the joy she felt when discovering her next
pregnancy.

Kishore’s
Mother relished the time we spent together, this gave her time to form her own
judg
e
ment on whether her future daughter-in-law would fit
into her society and be a good wife to her son, regardless
of the fact
we live
d
in New Zealand. The eldest daughter-in-law in the family is an important
person, as she
is
married to the eldest son. I knew my capabilities
were being tested.